SURREY. Oh, Sir Thomas, Our words are now the kings, and our sad looks The interest of your love! We are sent to you From our mild sovereign, once more to demand If you’ll subscribe unto those articles He sent ye th’ other day: be well advised; For, on mine honor, lord, grave Doctor Fisher Bishop of Rochester, at the self same instant Attached with you, is sent unto the Tower For the like obstinacy: his majesty Hath only sent you prisoner to your house; But, if you now refuse for to subscribe, A stricter course will follow. LADY MORE. Oh, dear husband! [Kneeling and weeping.] BOTH DAUGHTERS. Dear father! MORE. See, my lords, This partner and these subjects to my flesh Prove rebels to my conscience! But, my good lords, If I refuse, must I unto the Tower? SHREWSBURY. You must, my lord; here is an officer Ready for to arrest you of high treason. LADY MORE AND DAUGHTERS. Oh, God, oh, God! ROPER. Be patient, good madam. MORE. Aye, Downs, ist thou? I once did save thy life, When else by cruel riotous assault Thou hadst been torn in pieces: thou art reserved To be my summoner to yond spiritual court. Give me thy hand; good fellow, smooth thy face: The diet that thou drinkst is spic’d with mace, And I could ne’er abide it; ’twill not disgest, Twill lie too heavily, man, on my weak breast. SHREWSBURY. Be brief, my lord, for we are limited Unto an hour. MORE. Unto an hour! tis well: The bell soon shall toll my knell. LADY MORE. Dear loving husband, if you respect not me, Yet think upon your daughters. [Kneeling.] MORE. Wife, stand up; I have bethought me, And I’ll now satisfy the king’s good pleasure. [Pointing to himself.] BOTH DAUGHTERS. Oh, happy alteration! SHREWSBURY. Come, then, subscribe, my lord. SURREY. I am right glad of this your fair conversion. MORE. Oh, pardon me! I will subscribe to go unto the Tower With all submissive willingness, and thereto add My bones to strengthen the foundation Of Julius Caesar’s palace. Now, my lord, I’ll satisfy the king, even with my blood; Now will I wrong your patience.—Friend, do thine office. DOWNES. Sir thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, I arrest you in the king’s name of high treason. MORE. Gramercies, friend. To a great prison, to discharge the strife Commenc’d twixt conscience and my frailer life, More now must march. Chelsea, adieu, adieu! Strange farewell! thou shalt ne’er more see More true, For I shall ne’er see thee more.—Servants, farewell.— Wife, mar not thine indifferent face; be wise: More’s widow’s husband, he must make thee rise.— Daughters....: —what’s here, what’s here? Mine eye had almost parted with a tear.— Dear son, possess my virtue, that I ne’er gave.— Grave More thus lightly walks to a quick grave. ROPER. Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent. MORE. You that way in; mind you my course in prayer: By water I to prison, to heaven through air. [Exeunt.] ACT V. SCENE I. The Tower Gate. [Enter the Warders of the Tower, with halbards.]