If we could burn out heresy, my Lord Paget,
We reck not tho' we lost this crown of England--
Ay! tho' it were ten Englands!
GARDINER. Right, your Grace.
Paget, you are all for this poor life of ours,
And care but little for the life to be.
PAGET. I have some time, for curiousness, my Lord
Watch'd children playing at _their_ life to be,
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies;
Such is our time--all times for aught I know.
GARDINER. We kill the heretics that sting the soul--
They, with right reason, flies that prick the flesh.
PAGET. They had not reach'd right reason; little children!
They kill'd but for their pleasure and the power
They felt in killing.
GARDINER. A spice of Satan, ha!
Why, good! what then? granted!--we are fallen creatures;
Look to your Bible, Paget! we are fallen.
PAGET. I am but of the laity, my Lord Bishop,
And may not read your Bible, yet I found
One day, a wholesome scripture, 'Little children,
Love one another.'
GARDINER. Did you find a scripture,
'I come not to bring peace but a sword'? The sword
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. Paget,
You stand up here to fight for heresy,
You are more than guess'd at as a heretic,
And on the steep-up track of the true faith
Your lapses are far seen.
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