Ay, and the King of kings,
Or justice; for it seem'd to me but just
The Church should pay her scutage like the lords.
But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot
That I am not the man to be your Primate,
For Henry could not work a miracle--
Make an Archbishop of a soldier?
HERBERT.
Ay,
For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man.
BECKET.
Am I the man? My mother, ere she bore me,
Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven
Into her bosom.
HERBERT.
Ay, the fire, the light,
The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd
Into thy making.
BECKET.
And when I was a child,
The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep,
Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. Dream,
Or prophecy, that?
HERBERT.
Well, dream and prophecy both.
BECKET.
And when I was of Theobald's household, once--
The good old man would sometimes have his jest--
He took his mitre off, and set it on me,
And said, 'My young Archbishop--thou wouldst make
A stately Archbishop!' Jest or prophecy there?
HERBERT.
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