You will have war; and tho' we grant the Church
King over this world's kings, yet, my good lord,
We that are kings are something in this world,
And so we pray you, draw yourself from under
The wings of France. We shelter you no more.
[_Exit_.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
I am glad that France hath scouted him at last:
I told the Pope what manner of man he was.
[_Exit_.
ROGER OF YORK.
Yea, since he flouts the will of either realm,
Let either cast him away like a dead dog!
[_Exit_.
FOLIOT.
Yea, let a stranger spoil his heritage,
And let another take his bishoprick!
[_Exit_.
DE BROC.
Our castle, my lord, belongs to Canterbury.
I pray you come and take it. [_Exit_.
FITZURSE.
When you will.
[_Exit_.
BECKET.
Cursed be John of Oxford, Roger of York,
And Gilbert Foliot! cursed those De Brocs
That hold our Saltwood Castle from our see!
Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of them
That sow this hate between my lord and me!
_Voices from the Crowd_.
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