[_Exit_.
CRANMER. This hard coarse man of old hath crouch'd to me
Till I myself was half ashamed for him.
_Enter_ THIRLBY.
Weep not, good Thirlby.
THIRLBY. Oh, my Lord, my Lord!
My heart is no such block as Bonner's is:
Who would not weep?
CRANMER. Why do you so my--lord me,
Who am disgraced?
THIRLBY. On earth; but saved in heaven
By your recanting.
CRANMER. Will they burn me, Thirlby?
THIRLBY. Alas, they will; these burnings will not help
The purpose of the faith; but my poor voice
Against them is a whisper to the roar
Of a spring-tide.
CRANMER. And they will surely burn me?
THIRLBY. Ay; and besides, will have you in the church
Repeat your recantation in the ears
Of all men, to the saving of their souls,
Before your execution. May God help you
Thro' that hard hour!
CRANMER. And may God bless you, Thirlby!
Well, they shall hear my recantation there.
[_Exit_ THIRLBY.
Disgraced, dishonour'd!--not by them, indeed,
By mine own self--by mine own hand!
O thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 'twas you
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan of Kent;
But then she was a witch. You have written much,
But you were never raised to plead for Frith,
Whose dogmas I have reach'd: he was deliver'd
To the secular arm to burn; and there was Lambert;
Who can foresee himself? truly these burnings,
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the burners,
And help the other side.
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