FITZURSE.
I was not.
BECKET.
You were. I never forget anything.
FITZURSE.
He makes the King a traitor, me a liar.
How long shall we forbear him?
JOHN OF SALISBURY (_drawing_ BECKET _aside_).
O my good lord.
Speak with them privately on this hereafter.
You see they have been revelling, and I fear
Are braced and brazen'd up with Christmas wines
For any murderous brawl.
BECKET.
And yet they prate
Of mine, my brawls, when those, that name themselves
Of the King's part, have broken down our barns,
Wasted our diocese, outraged our tenants,
Lifted our produce, driven our clerics out--
Why they, your friends, those ruffians, the De Brocs,
They stood on Dover beach to murder me,
They slew my stags in mine own manor here,
Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter-mule,
Plunder'd the vessel full of Gascon wine,
The old King's present, carried off the casks,
Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the other half
In Pevensey Castle--
DE MORVILLE.
Why not rather then,
If this be so, complain to your young King,
Not punish of your own authority?
BECKET.
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