[Enter Sir Thomas More, his Lady, Daughters, Master Roper, Gentlemen, and Servants, as in his house at Chelsea.]
MORE. Good morrow, good son Roper.-- Sit, good madame, [Low stools.]
Upon an humble seat; the time so craves; Rest your good heart on earth, the roof of graves: You see the floor of greatness is uneven; The cricket and high throne alike near heaven.-- Now, daughters, you that like to branches spread, And give best shadow to a private house, Be comforted, my girls; your hopes stand fair: Virtue breeds gentry, she makes the best heir.
BOTH DAUGHTERS. Good morrow to your honor.
MORE. Nay, good night rather; Your honor's crest-fain with your happy father.
ROPER. Oh, what formality, what square observance, Lives in a little room! here public care Gags not the eyes of slumber; here fierce riot Ruffles not proudly in a coat of trust, Whilst, like a pawn at chess, he keeps in rank With kings and mighty fellows; yet indeed Those men that stand on tiptoe smile to see Him pawn his fortunes.
MORE. True, son,.... Nor does the wanton tongue here screw itself Into the ear, that like a vise drinks up The iron instrument.
LADY MORE. We are here at peace. MORE. Then peace, good wife.
LADY MORE. For, keeping still in compass, a strange point In times new navigation we have sailed Beyond our course.
MORE. Have done.
LADY MORE. We are exiled the court.
MORE. Still thou harpest on that: Tis sin for to deserve that banishment; But he that ne'er knew court, courts sweet content.
LADY MORE. Oh, but, dear husband--
MORE. I will not hear thee, wife; The winding labyrinth of thy strange discourse Will ne'er have end. Sit still; and, my good wife, Entreat thy tongue be still; or, credit me, Thou shalt not understand a word we speak;We'll talk in Latin. Humida vallis raros patitur fulminis ictus, More rest enjoys the subject meanly bred Than he that bears the kingdom in his head. Great men are still musicians, else the world lies; They learn low strains after the notes that rise.
ROPER. Good sir, be still yourself, and but remember How in this general court of short-lived pleasure, The world, creation is the ample food That is digested in the maw of time: If man himself be subject to such ruin, How shall his garment, then, or the loose points That tie respect unto his awful place, Avoid destruction? Most honored father-in-law, The blood you have bequeathed these several hearts To nourish your posterity, stands firm; And, as with joy you led us first to rise, So with like hearts we'll lock preferment's eyes.
MORE. Close them not, then, with tears: for that ostent Gives a wet signal of your discontent. If you will share my fortunes, comfort then; An hundred smiles for one sigh: what! we are men: Resign wet passion to these weaker eyes, Which proves their ***, but grants it ne'er more wise. Let's now survey our state. Here sits my wife, And dear esteemed issue; yonder stand My loving servants: now the difference Twixt those and these. Now you shall hear my speak Like More in melancholy. I conceive that nature Hath sundry metals, out of which she frames Us mortals, each in valuation Outprizing other: of the finest stuff The finest features come: the rest of earth, Receive base fortune even before their birth; Hence slaves have their creation; and I think Nature provides content for the base mind; Under the whip, the burden, and the toil, Their low-wrought bodies drudge in patience; As for the prince in all his sweet-gorged maw, And his rank flesh, that sinfully renews The noon's excess in the night's dangerous surfeits. What means or misery from our birth doth flow Nature entitles to us; that we owe: But we, being subject to the rack of hate, Falling from happy life to bondage state, Having seen better days, now know the lack Of glory that once reared each high-fed back. But you, that in your age did ne'er view better, Challenged not fortune for your thriftless debter.
CATESBY. Sir, we have seen far better days than these.
