Blessed be the Lord Archbishop, who hath withstood two Kings to their
faces for the honour of God.
BECKET.
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, praise!
I thank you, sons; when kings but hold by crowns,
The crowd that hungers for a crown in Heaven
Is my true king.
HERBERT.
Thy true King bad thee be
A fisher of men; thou hast them in thy net.
BECKET.
I am too like the King here; both of us
Too headlong for our office. Better have been
A fisherman at Bosham, my good Herbert,
Thy birthplace--the sea-creek--the petty rill
That falls into it--the green field--the gray church--
The simple lobster-basket, and the mesh--
The more or less of daily labour done--
The pretty gaping bills in the home-nest
Piping for bread--the daily want supplied--
The daily pleasure to supply it.
HERBERT.
Ah, Thomas,
You had not borne it, no, not for a day.
BECKET.
Well, maybe, no.
HERBERT.
But bear with Walter Map,
For here he comes to comment on the time.
_Enter_ WALTER MAP.
WALTER MAP.
Pity, my lord, that you have quenched the warmth of France toward you,
tho' His Holiness, after much smouldering and smoking, be kindled
again upon your quarter.
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