[Enter the Lady More, her two Daughters, and Master Roper, as walking.]
ROPER. Madame, what ails ye for to look so sad?
LADY MORE. Troth, son, I know not what; I am not sick, And yet I am not well. I would be merry; But somewhat lies so heavy on heart, I cannot choose but sigh. You are a scholar; I pray ye, tell me, may one credit dreams?
ROPER. Why ask you that, dear madame?
LADY MORE. Because tonight I had the strangest dream That ere my sleep was troubled with. Me thought twas night, And that the king and queen went on the Thames In barges to hear music: my lord and I Were in a little boat me thought,--Lord, Lord, What strange things live in slumbers!--and, being near, We grappled to the barge that bare the king. But after many pleasing voices spent In that still moving music house, me though The violence of the stream did sever us Quite from the golden fleet, and hurried us Unto the bridge, which with unused horror We entered at full tide: thence some slight shoot Being carried by the waves, our boat stood still Just opposite the Tower, and there it turned And turned about, as when a whirl-pool sucks The circled waters: me thought that we both cried, Till that we sunk: where arm in arm we died.
ROPER. Give no respect, dear madame, to fond dreams: They are but slight illusions of the blood.
LADY MORE. Tell me not all are so; for often dreams Are true diviners, either of good or ill: I cannot be in quiet till I hear How my lord fares.
ROPER. [aside.] No it.--Come hither, wife: I will not fright thy mother, to interpret The nature of a dream; but trust me, sweet, This night I have been troubled with thy father Beyond all thought.
ROPER'S WIFE. Truly, and so have I: Methought I saw him here in Chelsea Church, Standing upon the roodloft, now defac'd; And whilst he kneeled and prayed before the image, It fell with him into the upper-choir, Where my poor father lay all stained in blood.
ROPER. Our dreams all meet in one conclusion, Fatal, I fear. LADY MORE. What's that you talk? I pray ye, let me know it. ROPER'S WIFE. Nothing, good mother.
LADY MORE. This is your fashion still; I must know nothing. Call Master Catesby; he shall straight to court, And see how my lord does: I shall not rest, Until my heart leave panting on his breast.
[Enter Sir Thomas More merrily, Servants attending.] DAUGHTER. See where my father comes, joyful and merry.
MORE. As seamen, having passed a troubled storm, Dance on the pleasant shore; so I--oh, I could speak Now like a poet! now, afore God, I am passing light!-- Wife, give me kind welcome: thou wast wont to blame My kissing when my beard was in the stubble; But I have been trimmed of late; I have had A smooth court shaving, in good faith, I have.--[Daughters kneel.]
God bless ye!--Son Roper, give me your hand. ROPER. Your honor's welcome home. MORE. Honor! ha ha!--And how dost, wife? ROPER. He bears himself most strangely. LADY MORE. Will your lordship in?
MORE. Lordship! no, wife, that's gone: The ground was slight that we did lean upon.
LADY MORE. Lord, that your honor ne'er will leave these jests! In faith, it ill becomes ye.
MORE. Oh, good wife, Honor and jests are both together fled; The merriest councillor of England's dead.
LADY MORE. Who's that, my lord? MORE. Still lord! the Lord Chancellor, wife. LADY MORE. That's you.
MORE. Certain; but I have changed my life. Am I not leaner than I was before? The fat is gone; my title's only More. Contented with one style, I'll live at rest: They that have many names are not still best. I have resigned mine office: count'st me not wise?
LADY MORE. Oh God!
MORE. Come, breed not female children in your eyes: The king willhave it so.
LADY MORE. What's the offense?
MORE. Tush, let that pass; we'll talk of that anon. The king seems a physician to my fate; His princely mind would train me back to state.
ROPER. Then be his patient, my most honored father.
MORE. Oh, son Roper, Ubi turpis est medicine, sanari piget!-- No, wife, be merry;--and be merry, all: You smiled at rising, weep not at my fall. Let's in, and hear joy like to private friends, Since days of pleasure have repentant ends: The light of greatness is with triumph born; It sets at midday oft with public scorn.
