1ST RETAINER. To-night, my lord. BECKET. And why? 1ST RETAINER. My lord, we leave thee not without tears. BECKET. Tears? Why not stay with me then? 1ST RETAINER. My lord, we cannot yield thee an answer altogether to thy satisfaction. BECKET. I warrant you, or your own either. Shall I find you one? The King hath frowned upon me. 1ST RETAINER. That is not altogether our answer, my lord. BECKET. No; yet all but all. Go, go! Ye have eaten of my dish and drunken of my cup for a dozen years. 1ST RETAINER. And so we have. We mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou not say, 'God bless you,' ere we go? BECKET. God bless you all! God redden your pale blood! But mine is human-red; and when ye shall hear it is poured out upon earth, and see it mounting to Heaven, my God bless you, that seems sweet to you now, will blast and blind you like a curse. 1ST RETAINER. We hope not, my lord. Our humblest thanks for your blessing. Farewell! [_Exeunt_ RETAINERS. BECKET. Farewell, friends! farewell, swallows! I wrong the bird; she leaves only the nest she built, they leave the builder. Why? Am I to be murdered to-night? [_Knocking at the door_. ATTENDANT. Here is a missive left at the gate by one from the castle. BECKET. Cornwall's hand or Leicester's: they write marvellously alike. [_Reading_. 'Fly at once to France, to King Louis of France: there be those about our King who would have thy blood.' Was not my lord of Leicester bidden to our supper? ATTENDANT. Ay, my lord, and divers other earls and barons. But the hour is past, and our brother, Master Cook, he makes moan that all be a-getting cold. BECKET. And I make my moan along with him. Cold after warm, winter after summer, and the golden leaves, these earls and barons, that clung to me, frosted off me by the first cold frown of the King. Cold, but look how the table steams, like a heathen altar; nay, like the altar at Jerusalem. Shall God's good gifts be wasted? None of them here! Call in the poor from the streets, and let them feast. HERBERT. That is the parable of our blessed Lord. BECKET. And why should not the parable of our blessed Lord be acted again? Call in the poor! The Church is ever at variance with the kings, and ever at one with the poor. I marked a group of lazars in the marketplace--half-rag, half-sore--beggars, poor rogues (Heaven bless 'em) who never saw nor dreamed of such a banquet. I will amaze them. Call them in, I say. They shall henceforward be my earls and barons-- our lords and masters in Christ Jesus. [_Exit_ HERBERT. If the King hold his purpose, I am myself a beggar. Forty thousand marks! forty thousand devils--and these craven bishops!