MORE. I thank your lordships for your pains thus far To my strong house.
WOMAN. Now, good Sir Thomas More, for Christ's dear sake, Deliver me my writings back again That do concern my title.
MORE. What, my old client, are thou got hither too? Poor silly wretch, I must confess indeed, I had such writings as concern thee near; But the king has ta'en the matter into his own hand; He has all I had: then, woman, sue to him; I cannot help thee; thou must bear with me.
WOMAN. Ah, gentle heart, my soul for thee is sad! Farewell the best friend that the poor e'er had.
[Exit Woman.]
GENTLEMAN PORTER. Before you enter through the Towergate, Your upper garment, sir, belongs to me.
MORE. Sir, you shall have it; there it is.
[He gives him his cap.]
GENTLEMAN PORTER. The upmost on your back, sir; you mistake me.
MORE. Sir, now I understand ye very well: But that you name my back, Sure else my cap had been the uppermost.
SHREWSBURY. Farewell, kind lord; God send us merry meeting!
MORE. Amen, my lord.
SURREY. Farewell, dear friend; I hope your safe return.
MORE. My lord, and my dear fellow in the Muses, Farewell; farewell, most noble poet.
LIEUTENANT. Adieu, most honored lords.
[Exeunt Lords.]
MORE. Fair prison, welcome; yet, methinks, For thy fair building tis too foul a name. Many a guilty soul, and many an innocent, Have breathed their farewell to thy hollow rooms. I oft have entered into thee this way; Yet, I thank God, ne'er with a clear conscience Than at this hour: This is my comfort yet, how hard sore My lodging prove, the cry of the poor suitor, Fatherless orphan, or distressed widow, Shall not disturb me in my quiet sleep. On, then, a God's name, to our close abode! God is as strong here as he is abroad.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. More's House.
[Enter Butler, Porter, and Horsekeeper several ways.]
BUTLER. Robin brewer, how now, man! what cheer, what cheer?
BREWER. Faith, Ned butler, sick of thy disease; and these our other fellows here, Rafe horsekeeper and Giles porter, sad, sad; they say my lord goes to his trial today.
HORSEKEEPER. To it, man! why, he is now at it, God send him well to speed!
PORTER. Amen; even as i wish to mine own soul, so speed it with my honorable lord and master, Sir Thomas More.
BUTLER. I cannot tell, I have nothing to do with matters above my capacity; but, as God judge me, if I might speak my mind, I think there lives not a more harmless gentleman in the universal world.
BREWER. Nor a wiser, nor a merrier, nor an honester; go to, I'll put that in upon mine own knowledge.
PORTER. Nay, and ye bait him his due of his housekeeping, hang ye all! ye have many Lord Chancellor's comes in debt at the year's end, and for very housekeeping.
HORSEKEEPER. Well, he was too good a lord for us, and therefore, I fear, God himself will take him: but I'll be hanged, if ever I have such an other service.
BREWER. Soft, man, we are not discharged yet: my lord may come home again, and all will be well.
BUTLER. I much mistrust it; when they go to raining once, there's ever foul weather for a great while after. But soft; here comes Master Gough and Master Catesby: now we shall hear more.
[Enter Gough and Catesby with a paper.]
HORSEKEEPER. Before God, they are very sad; I doubt my lord is condemned.
PORTER. God bless his soul! and a fig then for all wordly condemnation.
GOUGH. Well said, Giles porter, I commend thee for it; Twas spoken like a well affected servant Of him that was a kind lord to us all.
CATESBY. Which now no more he shall be; for, dear fellows, Now we are masterless, though he may live So long as please the king: but law hath made him A dead man to the world, and given the axe his head, But his sweet soul to live among the saints.
GOUGH. Let us entreat ye to go call together The rest of your sad fellows (by the rule Y'are just seven score), and tell them what we hear A virtuous honorable lord hath done Even for the meanest follower that he had. This writing found my lady in his study, This instant morning, wherein is set down Each servant's name, according to his place And office in the house: on every man He frankly hath bestown twenty nobles, The best and worst together, all alike, Which Master Catesby here forth will pay ye.