Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits
With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, thro'
The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms,
And goodly acres--we will make her whole;
Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs,
These ancient Royal customs--they _are_ Royal,
Not of the Church--and let them be anathema,
And all that speak for them anathema.

HERBERT.
Thomas, thou art moved too much.

BECKET.
O Herbert, here
I gash myself asunder from the King,
Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief
To show the scar for ever--his, a hate
Not ever to be heal'd.

_Enter_ ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD, _flying from_ SIR REGINALD
FITZURSE. _Drops her veil_.

BECKET.
Rosamund de Clifford!

ROSAMUND.
Save me, father, hide me--they follow me--
and I must not be known.