Farewell.
[_Exit_.
BECKET.
Map scoffs at Rome. I all but hold with Map.
Save for myself no Rome were left in England,
All had been his. Why should this Rome, this Rome,
Still choose Barabbas rather than the Christ,
Absolve the left-hand thief and damn the right?
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege,
Which even Peter had not dared? condemn
The blameless exile?--
HERBERT.
Thee, thou holy Thomas!
I would that thou hadst been the Holy Father.
BECKET.
I would have done my most to keep Rome holy,
I would have made Rome know she still is Rome--
Who stands aghast at her eternal self
And shakes at mortal kings--her vacillation,
Avarice, craft--O God, how many an innocent
Has left his bones upon the way to Rome
Unwept, uncared for. Yea--on mine own self
The King had had no power except for Rome.
'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine exile,
But Rome, Rome, Rome!
HERBERT.
My lord, I see this Louis
Returning, ah! to drive thee from his realm.
BECKET.
He said as much before. Thou art no prophet,
Nor yet a prophet's son.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91