He would not seal.
And when he sign'd, his face was stormy-red--
Shame, wrath, I know not what. He sat down there
And dropt it in his hands, and then a paleness,
Like the wan twilight after sunset, crept
Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd,
'False to myself! It is the will of God!'
HENRY.
God's will be what it will, the man shall seal,
Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's son--
Nay, if I cannot break him as the prelate,
I'll crush him as the subject. Send for him back.
[_Sits on his throne_.
Barons and bishops of our realm of England,
After the nineteen winters of King Stephen--
A reign which was no reign, when none could sit
By his own hearth in peace; when murder common
As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, had fill'd
All things with blood; when every doorway blush'd,
Dash'd red with that unhallow'd passover;
When every baron ground his blade in blood;
The household dough was kneaded up with blood;
The millwheel turn'd in blood; the wholesome plow
Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow weeds,
Till famine dwarft the race--I came, your King!
Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the East,
In mine own hall, and sucking thro' fools' ears
The flatteries of corruption--went abroad
Thro' all my counties, spied my people's ways;
Yea, heard the churl against the baron--yea,
And did him justice; sat in mine own courts
Judging my judges, that had found a King
Who ranged confusions, made the twilight day,
And struck a shape from out the vague, and law
From madness.
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