PAGET. Yet to save Cranmer were to serve the Church, Your Majesty's I mean; he is effaced, Self-blotted out; so wounded in his honour, He can but creep down into some dark hole Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and die; But if you burn him,--well, your Highness knows The saying, 'Martyr's blood--seed of the Church.' MARY. Of the true Church; but his is none, nor will be. You are too politic for me, my Lord Paget. And if he have to live so loath'd a life, It were more merciful to burn him now. THIRLBY. O yet relent. O, Madam, if you knew him As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, With all his learning-- MARY. Yet a heretic still. His learning makes his burning the more just. THIRLBY. So worshipt of all those that came across him; The stranger at his hearth, and all his house-- MARY. His children and his concubine, belike. THIRLBY. To do him any wrong was to beget A kindness from him, for his heart was rich, Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd therein The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. POLE. 'After his kind it costs him nothing,' there's An old world English adage to the point. These are but natural graces, my good Bishop, Which in the Catholic garden are as flowers, But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. HOWARD. Such weeds make dunghills gracious. MARY. Enough, my Lords. It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, And Philip's will, and mine, that he should burn. He is pronounced anathema. HOWARD. Farewell, Madam, God grant you ampler mercy at your call Than you have shown to Cranmer. [_Exeunt_ LORDS. POLE. After this, Your Grace will hardly care to overlook This same petition of the foreign exiles For Cranmer's life. MARY. Make out the writ to-night. [_Exeunt_. SCENE II.--OXFORD. CRANMER IN PRISON. CRANMER. Last night, I dream'd the faggots were alight, And that myself was fasten'd to the stake, I And found it all a visionary flame, Cool as the light in old decaying wood; And then King Harry look'd from out a cloud, And bad me have good courage; and I heard An angel cry 'There is more joy in Heaven,'-- And after that, the trumpet of the dead. [_Trumpets without_. Why, there are trumpets blowing now: what is it? _Enter_ FATHER COLE. COLE. Cranmer, I come to question you again; Have you remain'd in the true Catholic faith I left you in? CRANMER. In the true Catholic faith, By Heaven's grace, I am more and more confirm'd. Why are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole? COLE. Cranmer, it is decided by the Council That you to-day should read your recantation Before the people in St. Mary's Church. And there be many heretics in the town, Who loathe you for your late return to Rome, And might assail you passing through the street, And tear you piecemeal: so you have a guard.