Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven,
And thrust his right into the bitter flame;
And crying, in his deep voice, more than once,
'This hath offended--this unworthy hand!'
So held it till it all was burn'd, before
The flame had reach'd his body; I stood near--
Mark'd him--he never uttered moan of pain:
He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue,
Unmoving in the greatness of the flame,
Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr-like--
Martyr I may not call him--past--but whither?
PAGET. To purgatory, man, to purgatory.
PETERS. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory.
PAGET. Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him.
HOWARD. Paget, despite his fearful heresies,
I loved the man, and needs must moan for him;
O Cranmer!
PAGET. But your moan is useless now:
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT V.
SCENE I.--LONDON. HALL IN THE PALACE.
QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.
HEATH. Madam,
I do assure you, that it must be look'd to:
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes
Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to,
If war should fall between yourself and France;
Or you will lose your Calais.
MARY. It shall be look'd to;
I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas:
Here is the King.
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