HENRY. And Becket had my bosom on all this; If ever man by bonds of gratefulness-- I raised him from the puddle of the gutter, I made him porcelain from the clay of the city-- Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' love of him, Hoped, were he chosen archbishop, Church and Crown, Two sisters gliding in an equal dance, Two rivers gently flowing side by side-- But no! The bird that moults sings the same song again, The snake that sloughs comes out a snake again. Snake--ay, but he that lookt a fangless one, Issues a venomous adder. For he, when having dofft the Chancellor's robe-- Flung the Great Seal of England in my face-- Claim'd some of our crown lands for Canterbury-- My comrade, boon companion, my co-reveller, The master of his master, the King's king.-- God's eyes! I had meant to make him all but king. Chancellor-Archbishop, he might well have sway'd All England under Henry, the young King, When I was hence. What did the traitor say? False to himself, but ten-fold false to me! The will of God--why, then it is my will-- Is he coming? MESSENGER (_entering_). With a crowd of worshippers, And holds his cross before him thro' the crowd, As one that puts himself in sanctuary. HENRY. His cross! ROGER OF YORK. His cross! I'll front him, cross to cross. [_Exit_ ROGER OF YORK. HENRY. His cross! it is the traitor that imputes Treachery to his King! It is not safe for me to look upon him. Away--with me! [_Goes in with his_ BARONS _to the Council Chamber, the door of which is left open_. _Enter_ BECKET, _holding his cross of silver before him_. _The_ BISHOPS _come round him_. HEREFORD. The King will not abide thee with thy cross. Permit me, my good lord, to bear it for thee, Being thy chaplain. BECKET. No: it must protect me. HERBERT. As once he bore the standard of the Angles, So now he bears the standard of the angels. FOLIOT. I am the Dean of the province: let me bear it. Make not thy King a traitorous murderer. BECKET. Did not your barons draw their swords against me? _Enter_ ROGER OF YORK, _with his cross, advancing to_ BECKET. BECKET. Wherefore dost thou presume to bear thy cross, Against the solemn ordinance from Rome, Out of thy province? ROGER OF YORK. Why dost thou presume, Arm'd with thy cross, to come before the King? If Canterbury bring his cross to court, Let York bear his to mate with Canterbury. FOLIOT (_seizing hold of_ BECKET'S _cross_). Nay, nay, my lord, thou must not brave the King. Nay, let me have it. I will have it! BECKET. Away! [_Flinging him off_.