At your trial
Never stood up a bolder man than you;
You would not cap the Pope's commissioner--
Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy,
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that,
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord,
And make you simple Cranmer once again.
The common barber dipt your hair, and I
Scraped from your finger-points the holy oil;
And worse than all, you had to kneel to _me_;
Which was not pleasant for you, Master Cranmer.
Now you, that would not recognise the Pope,
And you, that would not own the Real Presence,
Have found a real presence in the stake,
Which frights you back into the ancient faith:
And so you have recanted to the Pope.
How are the mighty fallen, Master Cranmer!
CRANMER. You have been more fierce against the Pope than I;
But why fling back the stone he strikes me with?
[_Aside_.
O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness--
Power hath been given you to try faith by fire--
Pray you, remembering how yourself have changed,
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone,
To the poor flock--to women and to children--
That when I was archbishop held with me.
BONNER. Ay--gentle as they call you--live or die!
Pitiful to this pitiful heresy?
I must obey the Queen and Council, man.
Win thro' this day with honour to yourself,
And I'll say something for you--so--good-bye.
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