BECKET.
Mock me not. I am not even a monk.
Thy jest--no more. Why--look--is this a sleeve
For an archbishop?

HENRY.
But the arm within
Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my foes.

BECKET.
A soldier's, not a spiritual arm.

HENRY.
I lack a spiritual soldier, Thomas--
A man of this world and the next to boot.

BECKET.
There's Gilbert Foliot.

HENRY.
He! too thin, too thin.
Thou art the man to fill out the Church robe;
Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much for me.

BECKET.
Roger of York.

HENRY.
Roger is Roger of York.
King, Church, and State to him but foils wherein