No More Learning

Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt,
Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours,
After the long brain-dazing colloquies,
And thousand-times recurring argument
Of those two friars ever in my prison,
When left alone in my despondency,
Without a friend, a book, my faith would seem
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam heavily
Against the huge corruptions of the Church,
Monsters of mistradition, old enough
To scare me into dreaming, 'what am I,
Cranmer, against whole ages? ' was it so,
Or am I slandering my most inward friend,
To veil the fault of my most outward foe--
The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh?
O higher, holier, earlier, purer church,
I have found thee and not leave thee any more.
It is but a communion, not a mass--
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast!
(_Writes_. ) So, so; this will I say--thus will I pray.
[_Puts up the paper_.

_Enter_ BONNER.

BONNER. Good day, old friend; what, you look somewhat worn;
And yet it is a day to test your health
Ev'n at the best: I scarce have spoken with you
Since when? --your degradation. 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.
[_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.