Yet--lest there should be flashes
And fulminations from the side of Rome,
An interdict on England--I will have
My young son Henry crown'd the King of England,
That so the Papal bolt may pass by England,
As seeming his, not mine, and fall abroad.
I'll have it done--and now.
BECKET.
Surely too young
Even for this shadow of a crown; and tho'
I love him heartily, I can spy already
A strain of hard and headstrong in him. Say,
The Queen should play his kingship against thine!
HENRY.
I will not think so, Thomas. Who shall crown him?
Canterbury is dying.
BECKET.
The next Canterbury.
HENRY.
And who shall he be, my friend Thomas? Who?
BECKET.
Name him; the Holy Father will confirm him.
HENRY (_lays his hand on_ BECKET'S _shoulder_).
Here!
BECKET.
Mock me not. I am not even a monk.
Thy jest--no more. Why--look--is this a sleeve
For an archbishop?
HENRY.
But the arm within
Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my foes.
BECKET.
A soldier's, not a spiritual arm.
HENRY.
I lack a spiritual soldier, Thomas--
A man of this world and the next to boot.
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