MARY. O God! I have been too slack, too slack; There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards-- Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children. Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,-- We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace, We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up The Holy Office here--garner the wheat, And burn the tares with unquenchable fire! Burn!-- Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close The doors of all the offices below. Latimer! Sir, we are private with our women here-- Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow-- Thou light a torch that never will go out! 'Tis out--mine flames. Women, the Holy Father Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole-- Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it, As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, I have no power.--Ah, weak and meek old man, Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight Of thine own sectaries--No, no. No pardon! Why that was false: there is the right hand still Beckons me hence. Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason, Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did it, And Pole; we are three to one--Have you found mercy there, Grant it me here: and see, he smiles and goes, Gentle as in life. ALICE. Madam, who goes? King Philip? MARY. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes. Women, when I am dead, Open my heart, and there you will find written Two names, Philip and Calais; open his,-- So that he have one,-- You will find Philip only, policy, policy,-- Ay, worse than that--not one hour true to me! Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice! Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. Hast thou a knife? ALICE. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy-- MARY. Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soul By slaughter of the body? I could not, girl, Not this way--callous with a constant stripe, Unwoundable. The knife! ALICE. Take heed, take heed! The blade is keen as death. MARY. This Philip shall not Stare in upon me in my haggardness; Old, miserable, diseased, Incapable of children. Come thou down. [_Cuts out the picture and throws it down_. Lie there. (_Wails_) O God, I have kill'd my Philip! ALICE. No, Madam, you have but cut the canvas out; We can replace it. MARY. All is well then; rest-- I will to rest; he said, I must have rest. [_Cries of_ 'ELIZABETH' _in the street_. A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt? A new Northumberland, another Wyatt? I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave. LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you. MARY. I will not see her. Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister? I will see none except the priest. Your arm. [_To_ LADY CLARENCE. O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile Among thy patient wrinkles--Help me hence. [_Exeunt_.