Laics and barons, thro'
The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms,
And goodly acres--we will make her whole;
Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs,
These ancient Royal customs--they _are_ Royal,
Not of the Church--and let them be anathema,
And all that speak for them anathema.
HERBERT.
Thomas, thou art moved too much.
BECKET.
O Herbert, here
I gash myself asunder from the King,
Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief
To show the scar for ever--his, a hate
Not ever to be heal'd.
_Enter_ ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD, _flying from_ SIR REGINALD
FITZURSE. _Drops her veil_.
BECKET.
Rosamund de Clifford!
ROSAMUND.
Save me, father, hide me--they follow me--
and I must not be known.
BECKET.
Pass in with Herbert there.
[_Exeunt_ ROSAMUND _and_ HERBERT _by side door_.
_Enter_ FITZURSE.
FITZURSE.
The Archbishop!
BECKET.
Ay! what wouldst thou, Reginald?
FITZURSE.
Why--why, my lord, I follow'd--follow'd one--
BECKET.
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