And may there not be something
Of this world's leaven in thee too, when crying
On Holy Church to thunder out her rights
And thine own wrong so pitilessly. Ah, Thomas,
The lightnings that we think are only Heaven's
Flash sometimes out of earth against the heavens.
The soldier, when he lets his whole self go
Lost in the common good, the common wrong,
Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. I crave
Thy pardon--I have still thy leave to speak.
Thou hast waged God's war against the King; and yet
We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may,
Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites
And private hates with our defence of Heaven.
[_Enter_ EDWARD GRIM.
BECKET.
Thou art but yesterday from Cambridge, Grim;
What say ye there of Becket?
GRIM.
_I_ believe him
The bravest in our roll of Primates down
From Austin--there are some--for there are men
Of canker'd judgment everywhere--
BECKET.
Who hold
With York, with York against me.
GRIM.
Well, my lord,
A stranger monk desires access to you.
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