POLE (_angered_). But you, my Lord, beyond all supposition, In clear and open day were congruent With that vile Cranmer in the accursed lie Of good Queen Catherine's divorce--the spring Of all those evils that have flow'd upon us; For you yourself have truckled to the tyrant, And done your best to bastardise our Queen, For which God's righteous judgment fell upon you In your five years of imprisonment, my Lord, Under young Edward. Who so bolster'd up The gross King's headship of the Church, or more Denied the Holy Father! GARDINER. Ha! what! eh? But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, A bookman, flying from the heat and tussle, You lived among your vines and oranges, In your soft Italy yonder! You were sent for. You were appeal'd to, but you still preferr'd Your learned leisure. As for what I did I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord Legate And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to learn That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my Lord. POLE. But not for five-and-twenty years, my Lord. GARDINER. Ha! good! it seems then I was summon'd hither But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, friend Bonner, And tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal. The Church's evil is not as the King's, Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The mad bite Must have the cautery--tell him--and at once. What would'st thou do hadst thou his power, thou That layest so long in heretic bonds with me; Would'st thou not burn and blast them root and branch? BONNER. Ay, after you, my Lord. GARDINER. Nay, God's passion, before me! speak' BONNER. I am on fire until I see them flame. GARDINER. Ay, the psalm-singing weavers, cobblers, scum-- But this most noble prince Plantagenet, Our good Queen's cousin--dallying over seas Even when his brother's, nay, his noble mother's, Head fell-- POLE. Peace, madman! Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not fathom. Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chancellor Of England! no more rein upon thine anger Than any child! Thou mak'st me much ashamed That I was for a moment wroth at thee. MARY. I come for counsel and ye give me feuds, Like dogs that set to watch their master's gate, Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the walls, To worrying one another. My Lord Chancellor, You have an old trick of offending us; And but that you are art and part with us In purging heresy, well we might, for this Your violence and much roughness to the Legate, Have shut you from our counsels. Cousin Pole, You are fresh from brighter lands. Retire with me. His Highness and myself (so you allow us) Will let you learn in peace and privacy What power this cooler sun of England hath In breeding godless vermin. And pray Heaven That you may see according to our sight. Come, cousin. [_Exeunt_ QUEEN _and_ POLE, _etc_.