You are too cold to know the fashion of it.
Well, well, we will be gentle with him, gracious--
Most gracious.
_Enter_ BECKET, _after him,_ JOHN OF OXFORD, ROGER
OF YORK, GILBERT FOLIOT, DE BROC, FITZURSE, _etc_.
Only that the rift he made
May close between us, here I am wholly king,
The word should come from him.
BECKET (_kneeling_).
Then, my dear liege,
I here deliver all this controversy
Into your royal hands.
HENRY.
Ah, Thomas, Thomas,
Thou art thyself again, Thomas again.
BECKET (_rising_).
Saving God's honour!
HENRY.
Out upon thee, man!
Saving the Devil's honour, his yes and no.
Knights, bishops, earls, this London spawn--by Mahound,
I had sooner have been born a Mussulman--
Less clashing with their priests--
I am half-way down the slope--will no man stay me?
I dash myself to pieces--I stay myself--
Puff--it is gone. You, Master Becket, you
That owe to me your power over me--
Nay, nay--
Brother of France, you have taken, cherish'd him
Who thief-like fled from his own church by night,
No man pursuing.
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