[Verse 1] Alone in his Chelsea chamber, the chancellor's chain still feels new, More marvels how humble his bench of birth, yet now he gives the law its due. He warns himself: greatness is a serpent, pretty skin, danger inside — So he peels off his own velvet mantle, lets Randall step into his hide. If the great Erasmus comes calling, let's see what his learning can show: can a clerk — that's a scholar of letters — tell true worth from a borrowed glow? [Chorus] Does the robe make the man, or the mind make the robe? Outward show versus inward truth, that's the riddle he probed — A scholar deep in his letters, can he see past the lace? Chelsea's testing its wisdom on a borrowed face. [Verse 2] Sheriff drags in a ruffian — a brawler who loves a street fight — Jack Faulkner, hair past his shoulders, tangled, matted, a sight. He's sworn an oath, three years uncut, a vow he won't betray, so More sends him off to Newgate till that vow has worn away. Now Surrey and old Erasmus arrive, the jest about to unfold — Randall, playing Chancellor badly, boasts he's forsworn Latin cold. More steps in and unmasks the conceits — those clever jokes gone astray — he'd warned Randall plain before: "Who prates not much seems wise," meaning chatter too freely, and wisdom quietly dies. Then poetry flows warm with Surrey, lines traded like borrowed coins. [Chorus] Does the robe make the man, or the mind make the robe? Outward show versus inward truth, that's the riddle he probed — A scholar deep in his letters, can he see past the lace? Chelsea's testing its wisdom on a borrowed face. [Bridge] Turning to his old friend Erasmus, More softens the jest he has thrown: "Mirth wrinkles up my face, and I still crave, When that forsakes me I may hug my grave" — laughter's the wrinkle he treasures till the quiet earth is his own. [Verse 3] Faulkner comes back shorn and humbled, promising decent life, plain and true, More sets him free, grinning: "Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit" — the shearing's overdue. With only Morris left to hear him, Faulkner rages comic and loud, mourning his vainglory locks — that puffed-up pride in a crowd — cursing the shears, cursing the vow, missing the mane he'd allowed. [Chorus] Does the robe make the man, or the mind make the robe? Outward show versus inward truth, that's the riddle he probed — A scholar deep in his letters, can he see past the lace? Chelsea's testing its wisdom on a borrowed face. [Outro] Chelsea taught the scholar and the fool the selfsame line: worth isn't woven in velvet, nor hidden where the hair used to shine.
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