Chelsea. A Room in More's House.
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.
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.
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