LOUIS. My lord, will you be greater than the Saints, More than St. Peter? whom--what is it you doubt? Behold your peace at hand. BECKET. I say that those Who went before us did not wholly clear The deadly growths of earth, which Hell's own heat So dwelt on that they rose and darken'd Heaven. Yet they did much. Would God they had torn up all By the hard root, which shoots again; our trial Had so been less; but, seeing they were men Defective or excessive, must we follow All that they overdid or underdid? Nay, if they were defective as St. Peter Denying Christ, who yet defied the tyrant, We hold by his defiance, not his defect. O good son Louis, do not counsel me, No, to suppress God's honour for the sake Of any king that breathes. No, God forbid! HENRY. No! God forbid! and turn me Mussulman! No God but one, and Mahound is his prophet. But for your Christian, look you, you shall have None other God but me--me, Thomas, son Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. Out! I hear no more. [_Exit_. LOUIS. Our brother's anger puts him, Poor man, beside himself--not wise. My lord, We have claspt your cause, believing that our brother Had wrong'd you; but this day he proffer'd peace. You will have war; and tho' we grant the Church King over this world's kings, yet, my good lord, We that are kings are something in this world, And so we pray you, draw yourself from under The wings of France. We shelter you no more. [_Exit_. JOHN OF OXFORD. I am glad that France hath scouted him at last: I told the Pope what manner of man he was. [_Exit_. ROGER OF YORK. Yea, since he flouts the will of either realm, Let either cast him away like a dead dog! [_Exit_. FOLIOT. Yea, let a stranger spoil his heritage, And let another take his bishoprick! [_Exit_. DE BROC. Our castle, my lord, belongs to Canterbury. I pray you come and take it. [_Exit_. FITZURSE. When you will. [_Exit_. BECKET. Cursed be John of Oxford, Roger of York, And Gilbert Foliot! cursed those De Brocs That hold our Saltwood Castle from our see! Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of them That sow this hate between my lord and me! _Voices from the Crowd_. Blessed be the Lord Archbishop, who hath withstood two Kings to their faces for the honour of God. BECKET. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, praise! I thank you, sons; when kings but hold by crowns, The crowd that hungers for a crown in Heaven Is my true king. HERBERT. Thy true King bad thee be A fisher of men; thou hast them in thy net.