PETERS. You saw him how he past among the crowd; And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars Still plied him with entreaty and reproach: But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm Steers, ever looking to the happy haven Where he shall rest at night, moved to his death; And I could see that many silent hands Came from the crowd and met his own; and thus When we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer, He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind Is all made up, in haste put off the rags They had mock'd his misery with, and all in white, His long white beard, which he had never shaven Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain, Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood More like an ancient father of the Church, Than heretic of these times; and still the friars Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head, Or answer'd them in smiling negatives; Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry:-- 'Make short! make short!' and so they lit the wood. Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven, And thrust his right into the bitter flame; And crying, in his deep voice, more than once, 'This hath offended--this unworthy hand!' So held it till it all was burn'd, before The flame had reach'd his body; I stood near-- Mark'd him--he never uttered moan of pain: He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue, Unmoving in the greatness of the flame, Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr-like-- Martyr I may not call him--past--but whither? PAGET. To purgatory, man, to purgatory. PETERS. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory. PAGET. Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him. HOWARD. Paget, despite his fearful heresies, I loved the man, and needs must moan for him; O Cranmer! PAGET. But your moan is useless now: Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools. [_Exeunt_. ACT V. SCENE I.--LONDON. HALL IN THE PALACE. QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH. HEATH. Madam, I do assure you, that it must be look'd to: Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to, If war should fall between yourself and France; Or you will lose your Calais. MARY. It shall be look'd to; I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas: Here is the King. [_Exit_ HEATH. _Enter_ PHILIP. PHILIP. Sir Nicholas tells you true, And you must look to Calais when I go. MARY. Go? must you go, indeed--again--so soon? Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow, That might live always in the sun's warm heart, Stays longer here in our poor north than you:-- Knows where he nested--ever comes again. PHILIP. And, Madam, so shall I. MARY. O, will you? will you? I am faint with fear that you will come no more. PHILIP. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.