Part 28 (1/2)

HOWARD. We talk and Cranmer suffers.

The kindliest man I ever knew; see, see, I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land!

Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in herself, And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of Spain-- Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost Her fierce desire of bearing him a child, Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's day, Gone narrowing down and darkening to a close.

There will be more conspiracies, I fear.

PAGET. Ay, ay, beware of France.

HOWARD. O Paget, Paget!

I have seen heretics of the poorer sort, Expectant of the rack from day to day, To whom the fire were welcome, lying chain'd In breathless dungeons over steaming sewers, Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon the tongue, And putrid water, every drop a worm, Until they died of rotted limbs; and then Cast on the dunghill naked, and become Hideously alive again from head to heel, Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomit With hate and horror.

PAGET. Nay, you sicken _me_ To hear you.

HOWARD. Fancy-sick; these things are done, Done right against the promise of this Queen Twice given.

PAGET. No faith with heretics, my Lord!

Hist! there be two old gossips--gospellers, I take it; stand behind the pillar here; I warrant you they talk about the burning.

_Enter_ TWO OLD WOMEN. JOAN, _and after her_ TIB.

JOAN. Why, it be Tib!

TIB. I c.u.m behind tha, gall, and couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind and the wet! What a day, what a day! nigh upo' judgement daay loike.

Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer o' that daay.

JOAN. I must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay vor my owld legs up vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be I to win to the burnin'.

TIB. I should saay 'twur ower by now. I'd ha' been here avore, but Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best milcher in Islip.

JOAN. Our Daisy's as good 'z her.

TIB. Noa, Joan.

JOAN. Our Daisy's b.u.t.ter's as good'z hern.

TIB. Noa, Joan.

JOAN. Our Daisy's cheeses be better.

TIB. Noa, Joan.

JOAN. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, Tib; ez thou hast wi' thy owld man.

TIB. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hard eggs for a good pleace at the burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' white peasen i' the outfield--and barrin' the wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced to stick her, but we fetched her round at last. Thank the Lord therevore.

Dumble's the best milcher in Islip.

JOAN. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats me! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad things; tell 'ee now, I heerd summat as summun towld summun o' owld Bishop Gardiner's end; there wur an owld lord a-c.u.m to dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver, vor 'I wunt dine,' says my Lord Bishop, says he, 'not till I hears ez Latimer and Ridley be a-vire;' and so they bided on and on till vour o' the clock, till his man c.u.m in post vro' here, and tells un ez the vire has tuk holt. 'Now,' says the Bishop, says he, 'we'll gwo to dinner;' and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, G.o.d bless un!

but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o' G.o.d avore a could taste a mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un c.u.m a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord, therevore.

PAGET. The fools!