In one a son stone-blind
Sat by his mother's hearth: he had gone too far
Into the King's own woods; and the poor mother,
Soon as she learnt I was a friend of thine,
Cried out against the cruelty of the King.
I said it was the King's courts, not the King;
But she would not believe me, and she wish'd
The Church were king: she had seen the Archbishop once,
So mild, so kind. The people love thee, father.
BECKET.
Alas! when I was Chancellor to the King,
I fear I was as cruel as the King.
ROSAMUND.
Cruel? Oh, no--it is the law, not he;
The customs of the realm.
BECKET.
The customs! customs!
ROSAMUND.
My lord, you have not excommunicated him?
Oh, if you have, absolve him!
BECKET.
Daughter, daughter,
Deal not with things you know not.
ROSAMUND.
I know _him_.
Then you have done it, and I call _you_ cruel.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
No, daughter, you mistake our good Archbishop;
For once in France the King had been so harsh,
He thought to excommunicate him--Thomas,
You could not--old affection master'd you,
You falter'd into tears.
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