Act II, Scene I — Westminster. A street…

Act II, Scene I — Westminster. A street

Enter two Gentlemen at several doors.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Whither away so fast?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. O, God save ye. Even to the Hall, to hear what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I’ll save you That labour, sir. All’s now done but the ceremony Of bringing back the prisoner.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Were you there?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, indeed, was I.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Pray speak what has happened.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You may guess quickly what.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Is he found guilty?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, truly is he, and condemned upon’t.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am sorry for’t.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. So are a number more.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But pray, how passed it?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I’ll tell you in a little. The great Duke Came to the bar, where to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty and alleged Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. The King’s attorney on the contrary Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions Of divers witnesses, which the Duke desired To have brought viva voce to his face; At which appeared against him his surveyor, Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor, and John Car, Confessor to him, with that devil monk, Hopkins, that made this mischief.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. That was he That fed him with his prophecies?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. The same. All these accused him strongly, which he fain Would have flung from him, but, indeed he could not. And so his peers, upon this evidence, Have found him guilty of high treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly, for life, but all Was either pitied in him or forgotten.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. After all this, how did he bear himself?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. When he was brought again to th’ bar to hear His knell rung out, his judgement, he was stirred With such an agony, he sweat extremely And something spoke in choler, ill and hasty. But he fell to himself again, and sweetly In all the rest showed a most noble patience.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do not think he fears death.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sure he does not; He never was so womanish. The cause He may a little grieve at.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Certainly The Cardinal is the end of this.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis likely, By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder, Then deputy of Ireland, who removed, Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, Lest he should help his father.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. That trick of state Was a deep envious one.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. At his return No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, And generally, whoever the King favours, The Cardinal instantly will find employment, And far enough from court too.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. All the commons Hate him perniciously and, o’ my conscience, Wish him ten fathom deep. This duke as much They love and dote on, call him bounteous Buckingham, The mirror of all courtesy.

Enter Buckingham from his arraignment. Tipstaves before him, the axe with the edge towards him, Halberds on each side, accompanied with Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir William Sandys and common people.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Stay there, sir, And see the noble ruined man you speak of.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Let’s stand close and behold him.

BUCKINGHAM. All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me, Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. I have this day received a traitor’s judgement, And by that name must die; yet heaven bear witness, And if I have a conscience, let it sink me, Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! The law I bear no malice for my death; ’T has done, upon the premises, but justice. But those that sought it I could wish more Christians. Be what they will, I heartily forgive ’em. Yet let ’em look they glory not in mischief, Nor build their evils on the graves of great men, For then my guiltless blood must cry against ’em. For further life in this world I ne’er hope, Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies More than I dare make faults. You few that loved me And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only dying, Go with me like good angels to my end, And as the long divorce of steel falls on me, Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, i’ God’s name.

LOVELL. I do beseech your Grace, for charity, If ever any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.

BUCKINGHAM. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you As I would be forgiven. I forgive all. There cannot be those numberless offences ’Gainst me that I cannot take peace with. No black envy Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace, And if he speak of Buckingham, pray tell him You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers Yet are the King’s and, till my soul forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live Longer than I have time to tell his years; Ever beloved and loving may his rule be; And when old Time shall lead him to his end, Goodness and he fill up one monument!

LOVELL. To th’ waterside I must conduct your Grace, Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux, Who undertakes you to your end.

VAUX. Prepare there! The Duke is coming. See the barge be ready, And fit it with such furniture as suits The greatness of his person.

BUCKINGHAM. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone. My state now will but mock me. When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun. Yet I am richer than my base accusers, That never knew what truth meant. I now seal it, And with that blood will make ’em one day groan for’t. My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, Who first raised head against usurping Richard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister, Being distressed, was by that wretch betrayed, And, without trial, fell. God’s peace be with him. Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father’s loss, like a most royal prince, Restored me to my honours and out of ruins Made my name once more noble. Now his son, Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all That made me happy at one stroke has taken For ever from the world. I had my trial, And must needs say a noble one, which makes me A little happier than my wretched father. Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most— A most unnatural and faithless service. Heaven has an end in all; yet, you that hear me, This from a dying man receive as certain: Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, never found again But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, Pray for me. I must now forsake ye. The last hour Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell. And when you would say something that is sad, Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me.

[Exeunt Duke and train.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, this is full of pity. Sir, it calls, I fear, too many curses on their heads That were the authors.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. If the Duke be guiltless, ’Tis full of woe. Yet I can give you inkling Of an ensuing evil, if it fall, Greater than this.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good angels keep it from us! What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. This secret is so weighty, ’twill require A strong faith to conceal it.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Let me have it. I do not talk much.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am confident; You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear A buzzing of a separation Between the King and Katherine?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumour and allay those tongues That durst disperse it.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But that slander, sir, Is found a truth now, for it grows again Fresher than e’er it was, and held for certain The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal, Or some about him near, have, out of malice To the good Queen, possessed him with a scruple That will undo her. To confirm this too, Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately, As all think, for this business.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis the Cardinal; And merely to revenge him on the Emperor For not bestowing on him at his asking, The archbishopric of Toledo this is purposed.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I think you have hit the mark. But is’t not cruel That she should feel the smart of this? The Cardinal Will have his will, and she must fall.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis woeful. We are too open here to argue this. Let’s think in private more.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene II — An ante-chamber in the palace

Enter Lord Chamberlain, reading this letter.

CHAMBERLAIN. My lord, the horses your lordship sent for, with all the care had I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnished. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinal’s, by commission and main power, took ’em from me, with this reason: his master would be served before a subject, if not before the King; which stopped our mouths, sir. I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them. He will have all, I think.

Enter to the Lord Chamberlain, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.

NORFOLK. Well met, my Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN. Good day to both your Graces.

SUFFOLK. How is the King employed?

CHAMBERLAIN. I left him private, Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

NORFOLK. What’s the cause?

CHAMBERLAIN. It seems the marriage with his brother’s wife Has crept too near his conscience.

SUFFOLK. No, his conscience Has crept too near another lady.

NORFOLK. ’Tis so. This is the Cardinal’s doing, the king-cardinal. That blind priest, like the eldest son of Fortune, Turns what he list. The King will know him one day.

SUFFOLK. Pray God he do! He’ll never know himself else.

NORFOLK. How holily he works in all his business, And with what zeal! For, now he has cracked the league Between us and the Emperor, the Queen’s great nephew, He dives into the King’s soul and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, Fears and despairs—and all these for his marriage. And out of all these to restore the King, He counsels a divorce, a loss of her That like a jewel has hung twenty years About his neck, yet never lost her lustre; Of her that loves him with that excellence That angels love good men with; even of her That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, Will bless the King. And is not this course pious?

CHAMBERLAIN. Heaven keep me from such counsel! ’Tis most true: These news are everywhere, every tongue speaks ’em, And every true heart weeps for’t. All that dare Look into these affairs see this main end, The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open The King’s eyes, that so long have slept upon This bold bad man.

SUFFOLK. And free us from his slavery.

NORFOLK. We had need pray, And heartily, for our deliverance, Or this imperious man will work us all From princes into pages. All men’s honours Lie like one lump before him, to be fashioned Into what pitch he please.

SUFFOLK. For me, my lords, I love him not, nor fear him; there’s my creed. As I am made without him, so I’ll stand, If the King please. His curses and his blessings Touch me alike, they’re breath I not believe in. I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him To him that made him proud, the Pope.

NORFOLK. Let’s in, And with some other business put the King From these sad thoughts that work too much upon him. My lord, you’ll bear us company?

CHAMBERLAIN. Excuse me; The King has sent me otherwhere. Besides, You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him. Health to your lordships.

NORFOLK. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain, and the King draws the curtain and sits reading pensively.]

SUFFOLK. How sad he looks! Sure, he is much afflicted.

KING. Who’s there? Ha?

NORFOLK. Pray God he be not angry.

KING. Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves Into my private meditations? Who am I? Ha?

NORFOLK. A gracious king that pardons all offences Malice ne’er meant. Our breach of duty this way Is business of estate, in which we come To know your royal pleasure.

KING. Ye are too bold. Go to; I’ll make ye know your times of business. Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?

Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a commission.

Who’s there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded conscience, Thou art a cure fit for a king. [To Campeius.] You’re welcome, Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom; Use us and it. [To Wolsey.] My good lord, have great care I be not found a talker.

WOLSEY. Sir, you cannot. I would your Grace would give us but an hour Of private conference.

KING. [To Norfolk and Suffolk.] We are busy. Go.

NORFOLK. [A_side to Suffolk_.] This priest has no pride in him?

SUFFOLK. [Aside to Norfolk.] Not to speak of. I would not be so sick, though, for his place. But this cannot continue.

NORFOLK. [Aside to Suffolk.] If it do, I’ll venture one have-at-him.

SUFFOLK. [Aside to Norfolk.] I another.

[Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk.]

WOLSEY. Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom Above all princes in committing freely Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. Who can be angry now? What envy reach you? The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, Must now confess, if they have any goodness, The trial just and noble. All the clerks— I mean the learned ones in Christian kingdoms— Have their free voices. Rome, the nurse of judgement, Invited by your noble self, hath sent One general tongue unto us, this good man, This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius, Whom once more I present unto your Highness.

KING. And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome, And thank the holy conclave for their loves. They have sent me such a man I would have wished for.

CAMPEIUS. Your Grace must needs deserve all strangers’ loves, You are so noble. To your Highness’ hand I tender my commission, by whose virtue, The court of Rome commanding, you, my Lord Cardinal of York, are joined with me their servant In the unpartial judging of this business.

KING. Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardiner?

WOLSEY. I know your Majesty has always loved her So dear in heart not to deny her that A woman of less place might ask by law: Scholars allowed freely to argue for her.

KING. Ay, and the best she shall have, and my favour To him that does best. God forbid else. Cardinal, Prithee call Gardiner to me, my new secretary. I find him a fit fellow.

Enter Gardiner.

WOLSEY. [Aside to Gardiner.] Give me your hand. Much joy and favour to you; You are the King’s now.

GARDINER. [Aside to Wolsey.] But to be commanded For ever by your Grace, whose hand has raised me.

KING. Come hither, Gardiner.

[The King and Gardiner walk and whisper.]

CAMPEIUS. My lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace In this man’s place before him?

WOLSEY. Yes, he was.

CAMPEIUS. Was he not held a learned man?

WOLSEY. Yes, surely.

CAMPEIUS. Believe me, there’s an ill opinion spread, then Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal.

WOLSEY. How? Of me?

CAMPEIUS. They will not stick to say you envied him And fearing he would rise—he was so virtuous— Kept him a foreign man still, which so grieved him That he ran mad and died.

WOLSEY. Heav’n’s peace be with him! That’s Christian care enough. For living murmurers There’s places of rebuke. He was a fool, For he would needs be virtuous. That good fellow, If I command him, follows my appointment. I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother: We live not to be griped by meaner persons.

KING. Deliver this with modesty to th’ Queen.

[Exit Gardiner.]

The most convenient place that I can think of For such receipt of learning is Blackfriars. There ye shall meet about this weighty business. My Wolsey, see it furnished. O, my lord, Would it not grieve an able man to leave So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience! O, ’tis a tender place, and I must leave her.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene III — An ante-chamber of the Queen’s apartments

Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady.

ANNE. Not for that neither. Here’s the pang that pinches: His Highness having lived so long with her, and she So good a lady that no tongue could ever Pronounce dishonour of her—by my life, She never knew harm-doing—O, now, after So many courses of the sun enthroned, Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which To leave a thousandfold more bitter than ’Tis sweet at first t’ acquire—after this process, To give her the avaunt, it is a pity Would move a monster.

OLD LADY. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her.

ANNE. O, God’s will! Much better She ne’er had known pomp; though’t be temporal, Yet if that quarrel, Fortune, do divorce It from the bearer, ’tis a sufferance panging As soul and body’s severing.

OLD LADY. Alas, poor lady, She’s a stranger now again.

ANNE. So much the more Must pity drop upon her. Verily, I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born And range with humble livers in content Than to be perked up in a glist’ring grief, And wear a golden sorrow.

OLD LADY. Our content Is our best having.

ANNE. By my troth and maidenhead, I would not be a queen.

OLD LADY. Beshrew me, I would, And venture maidenhead for’t; and so would you, For all this spice of your hypocrisy. You, that have so fair parts of woman on you, Have too a woman’s heart, which ever yet Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty; Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts, Saving your mincing, the capacity Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive, If you might please to stretch it.

ANNE. Nay, good troth.

OLD LADY. Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen?

ANNE. No, not for all the riches under heaven.

OLD LADY. ’Tis strange. A threepence bowed would hire me, Old as I am, to queen it. But I pray you, What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs To bear that load of title?

ANNE. No, in truth.

OLD LADY. Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little. I would not be a young count in your way For more than blushing comes to. If your back Cannot vouchsafe this burden, ’tis too weak Ever to get a boy.

ANNE. How you do talk! I swear again I would not be a queen For all the world.

OLD LADY. In faith, for little England You’d venture an emballing. I myself Would for Caernarfonshire, although there longed No more to th’ crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

Enter Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, ladies. What were’t worth to know The secret of your conference?

ANNE. My good lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking. Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying.

CHAMBERLAIN. It was a gentle business, and becoming The action of good women. There is hope All will be well.

ANNE. Now, I pray God, amen!

CHAMBERLAIN. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note’s Ta’en of your many virtues, the King’s Majesty Commends his good opinion of you, and Does purpose honour to you no less flowing Than Marchioness of Pembroke, to which title A thousand pound a year annual support Out of his grace he adds.

ANNE. I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing; nor my prayers Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship, Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness, Whose health and royalty I pray for.

CHAMBERLAIN. Lady, I shall not fail t’ approve the fair conceit The King hath of you. [Aside.] I have perused her well. Beauty and honour in her are so mingled That they have caught the King; and who knows yet But from this lady may proceed a gem To lighten all this isle? I’ll to the King, And say I spoke with you.

ANNE. My honoured lord.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.]

OLD LADY. Why, this it is: see, see! I have been begging sixteen years in court, Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could Come pat betwixt too early and too late For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate! A very fresh fish here—fie, fie, fie upon This compelled fortune!—have your mouth filled up Before you open it.

ANNE. This is strange to me.

OLD LADY. How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no. There was a lady once—’tis an old story— That would not be a queen, that would she not, For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it?

ANNE. Come, you are pleasant.

OLD LADY. With your theme, I could O’ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke? A thousand pounds a year for pure respect? No other obligation? By my life, That promises more thousands; honour’s train Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time I know your back will bear a duchess. Say, Are you not stronger than you were?

ANNE. Good lady, Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, And leave me out on’t. Would I had no being If this salute my blood a jot. It faints me To think what follows. The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful In our long absence. Pray do not deliver What here you’ve heard to her.

OLD LADY. What do you think me?

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene IV — A hall in Blackfriars

Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and Saint Asaph; next them, with some small distance, follows a Gentleman bearing the purse with the great seal, and a cardinal’s hat; then two Priests, bearing each a silver cross; then a Gentleman Usher bare-headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen, bearing two great silver pillars; after them, side by side, the two Cardinals; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. The King takes place under the cloth of state. The two Cardinals sit under him as judges. The Queen takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of consistory; below them the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the stage.

WOLSEY. Whilst our commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded.

KING. What’s the need? It hath already publicly been read, And on all sides th’ authority allowed; You may then spare that time.

WOLSEY. Be’t so. Proceed.

SCRIBE. Say, “Henry King of England, come into the court.”

CRIER. Henry King of England, come into the court.

KING. Here.

SCRIBE. Say, “Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.”

CRIER. Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.

[The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks.]

QUEEN KATHERINE. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, And to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman and a stranger, Born out of your dominions, having here No judge indifferent nor no more assurance Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, In what have I offended you? What cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure That thus you should proceed to put me off And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness I have been to you a true and humble wife, At all times to your will conformable, Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry As I saw it inclined. When was the hour I ever contradicted your desire, Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends Have I not strove to love, although I knew He were mine enemy? What friend of mine That had to him derived your anger did I Continue in my liking? Nay, gave notice He was from thence discharged? Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife in this obedience Upward of twenty years, and have been blessed With many children by you. If, in the course And process of this time, you can report, And prove it too, against mine honour aught, My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty Against your sacred person, in God’s name, Turn me away and let the foul’st contempt Shut door upon me, and so give me up To the sharp’st kind of justice. Please you, sir, The King your father was reputed for A prince most prudent, of an excellent And unmatched wit and judgement. Ferdinand, My father, King of Spain, was reckoned one The wisest prince that there had reigned by many A year before. It is not to be questioned That they had gathered a wise council to them Of every realm, that did debate this business, Who deemed our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may Be by my friends in Spain advised, whose counsel I will implore. If not, i’ th’ name of God, Your pleasure be fulfilled.

WOLSEY. You have here, lady, And of your choice, these reverend fathers, men Of singular integrity and learning, Yea, the elect o’ th’ land, who are assembled To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless That longer you desire the court, as well For your own quiet as to rectify What is unsettled in the King.

CAMPEIUS. His Grace Hath spoken well and justly. Therefore, madam, It’s fit this royal session do proceed, And that without delay their arguments Be now produced and heard.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Lord Cardinal, To you I speak.

WOLSEY. Your pleasure, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Sir, I am about to weep; but, thinking that We are a queen, or long have dreamed so, certain The daughter of a king, my drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire.

WOLSEY. Be patient yet.

QUEEN KATHERINE. I will, when you are humble; nay, before, Or God will punish me. I do believe, Induced by potent circumstances, that You are mine enemy, and make my challenge You shall not be my judge; for it is you Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me, Which God’s dew quench! Therefore I say again, I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul Refuse you for my judge, whom, yet once more, I hold my most malicious foe and think not At all a friend to truth.

WOLSEY. I do profess You speak not like yourself, who ever yet Have stood to charity and displayed th’ effects Of disposition gentle and of wisdom O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do me wrong. I have no spleen against you, nor injustice For you or any. How far I have proceeded, Or how far further shall, is warranted By a commission from the Consistory, Yea, the whole Consistory of Rome. You charge me That I have “blown this coal”. I do deny it. The King is present. If it be known to him That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, And worthily, my falsehood, yea, as much As you have done my truth. If he know That I am free of your report, he knows I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the cure is to Remove these thoughts from you, the which before His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking And to say so no more.

QUEEN KATHERINE. My lord, my lord, I am a simple woman, much too weak T’ oppose your cunning. You’re meek and humble-mouthed; You sign your place and calling, in full seeming, With meekness and humility; but your heart Is crammed with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. You have, by fortune and his Highness’ favours, Gone slightly o’er low steps, and now are mounted Where powers are your retainers, and your words, Domestics to you, serve your will as ’t please Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you, You tender more your person’s honour than Your high profession spiritual; that again I do refuse you for my judge; and here, Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, To bring my whole cause ’fore his Holiness, And to be judged by him.

[She curtsies to the King and offers to depart.]

CAMPEIUS. The Queen is obstinate, Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainful to be tried by’t. ’Tis not well. She’s going away.

KING. Call her again.

CRIER. Katherine, Queen of England, come into the court.

GENTLEMAN USHER. Madam, you are called back.

QUEEN KATHERINE. What need you note it? Pray you keep your way. When you are called, return. Now, the Lord help! They vex me past my patience. Pray you, pass on. I will not tarry; no, nor ever more Upon this business my appearance make In any of their courts.

[Exeunt Queen and her Attendants.]

KING. Go thy ways, Kate. That man i’ th’ world who shall report he has A better wife, let him in naught be trusted, For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone— If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out— The queen of earthly queens. She’s noble born, And like her true nobility she has Carried herself towards me.

WOLSEY. Most gracious sir, In humblest manner I require your Highness That it shall please you to declare, in hearing Of all these ears—for where I am robbed and bound, There must I be unloosed, although not there At once and fully satisfied—whether ever I Did broach this business to your Highness, or Laid any scruple in your way which might Induce you to the question on’t? or ever Have to you, but with thanks to God for such A royal lady, spake one the least word that might Be to the prejudice of her present state, Or touch of her good person?

KING. My Lord Cardinal, I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour, I free you from’t. You are not to be taught That you have many enemies that know not Why they are so, but, like to village curs, Bark when their fellows do. By some of these The Queen is put in anger. You’re excused. But will you be more justified? You ever Have wished the sleeping of this business, never desired It to be stirred, but oft have hindered, oft, The passages made toward it. On my honour, I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point And thus far clear him. Now, what moved me to’t, I will be bold with time and your attention. Then mark th’ inducement. Thus it came; give heed to’t: My conscience first received a tenderness, Scruple, and prick on certain speeches uttered By th’ Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador, Who had been hither sent on the debating A marriage ’twixt the Duke of Orleans and Our daughter Mary. I’ th’ progress of this business, Ere a determinate resolution, he, I mean the Bishop, did require a respite, Wherein he might the King his lord advertise Whether our daughter were legitimate, Respecting this our marriage with the dowager, Sometimes our brother’s wife. This respite shook The bosom of my conscience, entered me, Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble The region of my breast; which forced such way That many mazed considerings did throng And pressed in with this caution. First, methought I stood not in the smile of heaven, who had Commanded nature that my lady’s womb, If it conceived a male child by me, should Do no more offices of life to’t than The grave does to th’ dead; for her male issue Or died where they were made, or shortly after This world had aired them. Hence I took a thought This was a judgement on me, that my kingdom, Well worthy the best heir o’ th’ world, should not Be gladded in’t by me. Then follows that I weighed the danger which my realms stood in By this my issue’s fail, and that gave to me Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer Toward this remedy whereupon we are Now present here together. That’s to say, I meant to rectify my conscience, which I then did feel full sick, and yet not well, By all the reverend fathers of the land And doctors learned. First I began in private With you, my Lord of Lincoln. You remember How under my oppression I did reek When I first moved you.

LINCOLN. Very well, my liege.

KING. I have spoke long. Be pleased yourself to say How far you satisfied me.

LINCOLN. So please your Highness, The question did at first so stagger me, Bearing a state of mighty moment in’t And consequence of dread, that I committed The daring’st counsel which I had to doubt And did entreat your Highness to this course Which you are running here.

KING. I then moved you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave To make this present summons. Unsolicited I left no reverend person in this court, But by particular consent proceeded Under your hands and seals. Therefore go on, For no dislike i’ th’ world against the person Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points Of my alleged reasons, drives this forward. Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life And kingly dignity, we are contented To wear our mortal state to come with her, Katherine, our Queen, before the primest creature That’s paragoned o’ th’ world.

CAMPEIUS. So please your Highness, The Queen being absent, ’tis a needful fitness That we adjourn this court till further day. Meanwhile must be an earnest motion Made to the Queen to call back her appeal She intends unto his Holiness.

KING. [Aside.] I may perceive These cardinals trifle with me. I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. My learned and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, Prithee return. With thy approach, I know, My comfort comes along.—Break up the court! I say, set on.

[Exeunt in manner as they entered.]

Act III, Scene I — London. The Queen’s apartments

Enter Queen and her Women, as at work.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Take thy lute, wench. My soul grows sad with troubles. Sing, and disperse ’em, if thou canst. Leave working.

WOMAN [sings song.]

Orpheus with his lute made trees And the mountain tops that freeze Bow themselves when he did sing. To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep or, hearing, die.

Enter a Gentleman.

QUEEN KATHERINE. How now?

GENTLEMAN. An’t please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the presence.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Would they speak with me?

GENTLEMAN. They willed me say so, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Pray their Graces To come near.

[Exit Gentleman.]

What can be their business With me, a poor weak woman, fallen from favour? I do not like their coming. Now I think on’t, They should be good men, their affairs as righteous. But all hoods make not monks.

Enter the two Cardinals, Wolsey and Campeius.

WOLSEY. Peace to your Highness.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Your Graces find me here part of housewife; I would be all, against the worst may happen. What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?

WOLSEY. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw Into your private chamber, we shall give you The full cause of our coming.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Speak it here. There’s nothing I have done yet, o’ my conscience, Deserves a corner. Would all other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! My lords, I care not, so much I am happy Above a number, if my actions Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw ’em, Envy and base opinion set against ’em, I know my life so even. If your business Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, Out with it boldly. Truth loves open dealing.

WOLSEY. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima—

QUEEN KATHERINE. O, good my lord, no Latin. I am not such a truant since my coming As not to know the language I have lived in. A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious. Pray speak in English. Here are some will thank you, If you speak truth, for their poor mistress’ sake. Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord Cardinal, The willing’st sin I ever yet committed May be absolved in English.

WOLSEY. Noble lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed— And service to his Majesty and you— So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant. We come not by the way of accusation, To taint that honour every good tongue blesses, Nor to betray you any way to sorrow— You have too much, good lady—but to know How you stand minded in the weighty difference Between the King and you, and to deliver, Like free and honest men, our just opinions And comforts to your cause.

CAMPEIUS. Most honoured madam, My Lord of York, out of his noble nature, Zeal, and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure Both of his truth and him—which was too far— Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace, His service and his counsel.

QUEEN KATHERINE. [Aside.] To betray me. My lords, I thank you both for your good wills. Ye speak like honest men; pray God ye prove so. But how to make ye suddenly an answer In such a point of weight, so near mine honour— More near my life, I fear—with my weak wit, And to such men of gravity and learning, In truth I know not. I was set at work Among my maids, full little, God knows, looking Either for such men or such business. For her sake that I have been—for I feel The last fit of my greatness—good your Graces, Let me have time and counsel for my cause. Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless.

WOLSEY. Madam, you wrong the King’s love with these fears; Your hopes and friends are infinite.

QUEEN KATHERINE. In England But little for my profit. Can you think, lords, That any Englishman dare give me counsel? Or be a known friend, ’gainst his Highness’ pleasure, Though he be grown so desperate to be honest, And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends, They that much weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, live not here. They are, as all my other comforts, far hence In mine own country, lords.

CAMPEIUS. I would your Grace Would leave your griefs and take my counsel.

QUEEN KATHERINE. How, sir?

CAMPEIUS. Put your main cause into the King’s protection. He’s loving and most gracious. ’Twill be much Both for your honour better and your cause, For if the trial of the law o’ertake ye, You’ll part away disgraced.

WOLSEY. He tells you rightly.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Ye tell me what ye wish for both: my ruin. Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye! Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge That no king can corrupt.

CAMPEIUS. Your rage mistakes us.

QUEEN KATHERINE. The more shame for ye! Holy men I thought ye, Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues; But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye. Mend ’em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort, The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, A woman lost among ye, laughed at, scorned? I will not wish ye half my miseries; I have more charity. But say I warned ye. Take heed, for heaven’s sake, take heed, lest at once The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye.

WOLSEY. Madam, this is a mere distraction. You turn the good we offer into envy.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye And all such false professors! Would you have me— If you have any justice, any pity, If ye be anything but churchmen’s habits— Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me? Alas, ’has banished me his bed already, His love, too, long ago. I am old, my lords, And all the fellowship I hold now with him Is only my obedience. What can happen To me above this wretchedness? All your studies Make me a curse like this.

CAMPEIUS. Your fears are worse.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Have I lived thus long—let me speak myself, Since virtue finds no friends—a wife, a true one— A woman, I dare say without vainglory, Never yet branded with suspicion— Have I with all my full affections Still met the King, loved him next heav’n, obeyed him, Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him, Almost forgot my prayers to content him, And am I thus rewarded? ’Tis not well, lords. Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne’er dreamed a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour: a great patience.

WOLSEY. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

QUEEN KATHERINE. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty To give up willingly that noble title Your master wed me to. Nothing but death Shall e’er divorce my dignities.

WOLSEY. Pray hear me.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Would I had never trod this English earth Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye have angels’ faces, but heaven knows your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched lady? I am the most unhappy woman living. [To her Women.] Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? Shipwrecked upon a kingdom where no pity, No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me, Almost no grave allowed me, like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I’ll hang my head and perish.

WOLSEY. If your Grace Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, You’d feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady, Upon what cause, wrong you? Alas, our places, The way of our profession, is against it. We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow ’em. For goodness’ sake, consider what you do, How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly Grow from the King’s acquaintance, by this carriage. The hearts of princes kiss obedience, So much they love it, but to stubborn spirits They swell and grow as terrible as storms. I know you have a gentle, noble temper, A soul as even as a calm. Pray think us Those we profess: peacemakers, friends, and servants.

CAMPEIUS. Madam, you’ll find it so. You wrong your virtues With these weak women’s fears. A noble spirit, As yours was put into you, ever casts Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The King loves you; Beware you lose it not. For us, if you please To trust us in your business, we are ready To use our utmost studies in your service.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Do what ye will, my lords, and pray forgive me If I have used myself unmannerly. You know I am a woman, lacking wit To make a seemly answer to such persons. Pray do my service to his Majesty. He has my heart yet, and shall have my prayers While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, Bestow your counsels on me. She now begs That little thought, when she set footing here, She should have bought her dignities so dear.

[Exeunt.]

Act III, Scene II — Ante-chamber to the King’s apartment

Enter the Duke of Norfolk, Duke of Suffolk, Lord Surrey and Lord Chamberlain.

NORFOLK. If you will now unite in your complaints And force them with a constancy, the Cardinal Cannot stand under them. If you omit The offer of this time, I cannot promise But that you shall sustain more new disgraces With these you bear already.

SURREY. I am joyful To meet the least occasion that may give me Remembrance of my father-in-law the Duke, To be revenged on him.

SUFFOLK. Which of the peers Have uncontemned gone by him, or at least Strangely neglected? When did he regard The stamp of nobleness in any person Out of himself?

CHAMBERLAIN. My lords, you speak your pleasures. What he deserves of you and me I know; What we can do to him—though now the time Gives way to us—I much fear. If you cannot Bar his access to th’ King, never attempt Anything on him, for he hath a witchcraft Over the King in ’s tongue.

NORFOLK. O, fear him not. His spell in that is out. The King hath found Matter against him that for ever mars The honey of his language. No, he’s settled, Not to come off, in his displeasure.

SURREY. Sir, I should be glad to hear such news as this Once every hour.

NORFOLK. Believe it, this is true. In the divorce his contrary proceedings Are all unfolded, wherein he appears As I would wish mine enemy.

SURREY. How came His practices to light?

SUFFOLK. Most strangely.

SURREY. O, how, how?

SUFFOLK. The Cardinal’s letters to the Pope miscarried, And came to th’ eye o’ the King, wherein was read How that the Cardinal did entreat his Holiness To stay the judgement o’ th’ divorce; for if It did take place, “I do” quoth he “perceive My king is tangled in affection to A creature of the Queen’s, Lady Anne Bullen.”

SURREY. Has the King this?

SUFFOLK. Believe it.

SURREY. Will this work?

CHAMBERLAIN. The King in this perceives him how he coasts And hedges his own way. But in this point All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic After his patient’s death. The King already Hath married the fair lady.

SURREY. Would he had!

SUFFOLK. May you be happy in your wish, my lord, For I profess you have it.

SURREY. Now, all my joy Trace the conjunction!

SUFFOLK. My amen to’t!

NORFOLK. All men’s.

SUFFOLK. There’s order given for her coronation. Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, She is a gallant creature, and complete In mind and feature. I persuade me, from her Will fall some blessing to this land which shall In it be memorized.

SURREY. But will the King Digest this letter of the Cardinal’s? The Lord forbid!

NORFOLK. Marry, amen!

SUFFOLK. No, no. There be more wasps that buzz about his nose Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius Is stolen away to Rome; hath ta’en no leave; Has left the cause o’ th’ King unhandled, and Is posted, as the agent of our Cardinal, To second all his plot. I do assure you The King cried “Ha!” at this.

CHAMBERLAIN. Now, God incense him, And let him cry “Ha!” louder.

NORFOLK. But, my lord, When returns Cranmer?

SUFFOLK. He is returned in his opinions, which Have satisfied the King for his divorce, Together with all famous colleges Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe, His second marriage shall be published, and Her coronation. Katherine no more Shall be called Queen, but Princess Dowager And widow to Prince Arthur.

NORFOLK. This same Cranmer’s A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain In the King’s business.

SUFFOLK. He has, and we shall see him For it an archbishop.

NORFOLK. So I hear.

SUFFOLK. ’Tis so.

Enter Wolsey and Cromwell.

The Cardinal!

NORFOLK. Observe, observe; he’s moody.

WOLSEY. The packet, Cromwell, Gave’t you the King?

CROMWELL. To his own hand, in ’s bedchamber.

WOLSEY. Looked he o’ th’ inside of the paper?

CROMWELL. Presently He did unseal them, and the first he viewed, He did it with a serious mind; a heed Was in his countenance. You he bade Attend him here this morning.

WOLSEY. Is he ready To come abroad?

CROMWELL. I think by this he is.

WOLSEY. Leave me a while.

[Exit Cromwell.]

[Aside.] It shall be to the Duchess of Alençon, The French king’s sister; he shall marry her. Anne Bullen? No; I’ll no Anne Bullens for him. There’s more in’t than fair visage. Bullen? No, we’ll no Bullens. Speedily I wish To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

NORFOLK. He’s discontented.

SUFFOLK. Maybe he hears the King Does whet his anger to him.

SURREY. Sharp enough, Lord, for thy justice!

WOLSEY. [Aside.] The late queen’s gentlewoman, a knight’s daughter, To be her mistress’ mistress? The Queen’s Queen? This candle burns not clear. ’Tis I must snuff it; Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous And well deserving? Yet I know her for A spleeny Lutheran, and not wholesome to Our cause, that she should lie i’ th’ bosom of Our hard-ruled King. Again, there is sprung up An heretic, an arch-one, Cranmer, one Hath crawled into the favour of the King And is his oracle.

NORFOLK. He is vexed at something.

Enter King, reading a schedule, and Lovell.

SURREY. I would ’twere something that would fret the string, The master-cord on ’s heart.

SUFFOLK. The King, the King!

KING. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated To his own portion! And what expense by th’ hour Seems to flow from him! How, i’ th’ name of thrift Does he rake this together? Now, my lords, Saw you the Cardinal?

NORFOLK. My lord, we have Stood here observing him. Some strange commotion Is in his brain. He bites his lip, and starts, Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Then lays his finger on his temple; straight Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, Strikes his breast hard, and anon he casts His eye against the moon. In most strange postures We have seen him set himself.

KING. It may well be There is a mutiny in ’s mind. This morning Papers of state he sent me to peruse, As I required; and wot you what I found There—on my conscience, put unwittingly? Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, Rich stuffs and ornaments of household, which I find at such proud rate that it outspeaks Possession of a subject.

NORFOLK. It’s heaven’s will! Some spirit put this paper in the packet To bless your eye withal.

KING. If we did think His contemplation were above the earth And fixed on spiritual object, he should still Dwell in his musings, but I am afraid His thinkings are below the moon, not worth His serious considering.

[King takes his seat; whispers Lovell, who goes to the Cardinal.]

WOLSEY. Heaven forgive me! Ever God bless your Highness.

KING. Good my lord, You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory Of your best graces in your mind, the which You were now running o’er. You have scarce time To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span To keep your earthly audit. Sure, in that I deem you an ill husband, and am glad To have you therein my companion.

WOLSEY. Sir, For holy offices I have a time; a time To think upon the part of business which I bear i’ th’ state; and Nature does require Her times of preservation, which perforce I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, Must give my tendance to.

KING. You have said well.

WOLSEY. And ever may your Highness yoke together, As I will lend you cause, my doing well With my well saying.

KING. ’Tis well said again, And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well. And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you; He said he did, and with his deed did crown His word upon you. Since I had my office, I have kept you next my heart, have not alone Employed you where high profits might come home, But pared my present havings to bestow My bounties upon you.

WOLSEY. [Aside.] What should this mean?

SURREY. [Aside.] The Lord increase this business!

KING. Have I not made you The prime man of the state? I pray you tell me, If what I now pronounce you have found true, And, if you may confess it, say withal If you are bound to us or no. What say you?

WOLSEY. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, Showered on me daily, have been more than could My studied purposes requite, which went Beyond all man’s endeavours. My endeavours Have ever come too short of my desires, Yet filed with my abilities. Mine own ends Have been mine so that evermore they pointed To th’ good of your most sacred person and The profit of the state. For your great graces Heaped upon me, poor undeserver, I Can nothing render but allegiant thanks, My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty, Which ever has and ever shall be growing, Till death, that winter, kill it.

KING. Fairly answered. A loyal and obedient subject is Therein illustrated. The honour of it Does pay the act of it, as i’ th’ contrary, The foulness is the punishment. I presume That, as my hand has opened bounty to you, My heart dropped love, my power rained honour, more On you than any, so your hand and heart, Your brain, and every function of your power, Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty, As ’twere in love’s particular, be more To me, your friend, than any.

WOLSEY. I do profess That for your Highness’ good I ever laboured More than mine own, that am, have, and will be. Though all the world should crack their duty to you And throw it from their soul, though perils did Abound as thick as thought could make ’em, and Appear in forms more horrid—yet my duty, As doth a rock against the chiding flood, Should the approach of this wild river break, And stand unshaken yours.

KING. ’Tis nobly spoken. Take notice, lords: he has a loyal breast, For you have seen him open’t.

[Giving him papers.]

Read o’er this, And after, this; and then to breakfast with What appetite you have.

[Exit King, frowning upon the Cardinal; the nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering.]

WOLSEY. What should this mean? What sudden anger’s this? How have I reaped it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin Leaped from his eyes. So looks the chafed lion Upon the daring huntsman that has galled him, Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper— I fear, the story of his anger. ’Tis so. This paper has undone me. ’Tis th’ account Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together For mine own ends—indeed, to gain the popedom And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence, Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil Made me put this main secret in the packet I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this? No new device to beat this from his brains? I know ’twill stir him strongly; yet I know A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune, Will bring me off again. What’s this? “To th’ Pope”? The letter, as I live, with all the business I writ to ’s Holiness. Nay then, farewell! I have touched the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting. I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more.

Enter to Wolsey, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.

NORFOLK. Hear the King’s pleasure, Cardinal, who commands you To render up the great seal presently Into our hands, and to confine yourself To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester’s, Till you hear further from his Highness.

WOLSEY. Stay. Where’s your commission, lords? Words cannot carry Authority so weighty.

SUFFOLK. Who dares cross ’em, Bearing the King’s will from his mouth expressly?

WOLSEY. Till I find more than will or words to do it— I mean your malice—know, officious lords, I dare and must deny it. Now I feel Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy! How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, As if it fed ye, and how sleek and wanton Ye appear in everything may bring my ruin! Follow your envious courses, men of malice; You have Christian warrant for ’em, and no doubt In time will find their fit rewards. That seal You ask with such a violence, the King, Mine and your master, with his own hand gave me; Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life; and, to confirm his goodness, Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who’ll take it?

SURREY. The King that gave it.

WOLSEY. It must be himself, then.

SURREY. Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

WOLSEY. Proud lord, thou liest. Within these forty hours Surrey durst better Have burnt that tongue than said so.

SURREY. Thy ambition, Thou scarlet sin, robbed this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law. The heads of all thy brother cardinals, With thee and all thy best parts bound together, Weighed not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! You sent me Deputy for Ireland, Far from his succour, from the King, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gav’st him, Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, Absolved him with an axe.

WOLSEY. This, and all else This talking lord can lay upon my credit, I answer is most false. The Duke by law Found his deserts. How innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His noble jury and foul cause can witness. If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you You have as little honesty as honour, That in the way of loyalty and truth Toward the King, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be, And all that love his follies.

SURREY. By my soul, Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel My sword i’ th’ lifeblood of thee else. My lords, Can ye endure to hear this arrogance? And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely, To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, Farewell, nobility. Let his Grace go forward And dare us with his cap, like larks.

WOLSEY. All goodness Is poison to thy stomach.

SURREY. Yes, that goodness Of gleaning all the land’s wealth into one, Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion; The goodness of your intercepted packets You writ to the Pope against the King. Your goodness, Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, As you respect the common good, the state Of our despised nobility, our issues, Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles Collected from his life. I’ll startle you Worse than the sacring bell when the brown wench Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal.

WOLSEY. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, But that I am bound in charity against it!

NORFOLK. Those articles, my lord, are in the King’s hand; But thus much, they are foul ones.

WOLSEY. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise When the King knows my truth.

SURREY. This cannot save you. I thank my memory I yet remember Some of these articles, and out they shall. Now, if you can blush and cry “Guilty,” Cardinal, You’ll show a little honesty.

WOLSEY. Speak on, sir; I dare your worst objections. If I blush, It is to see a nobleman want manners.

SURREY. I had rather want those than my head. Have at you! First, that without the King’s assent or knowledge, You wrought to be a legate, by which power You maimed the jurisdiction of all bishops.

NORFOLK. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else To foreign princes, “ego et rex meus” Was still inscribed, in which you brought the King To be your servant.

SUFFOLK. Then, that without the knowledge Either of King or Council, when you went Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great seal.

SURREY. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, Without the King’s will or the state’s allowance, A league between his Highness and Ferrara.

SUFFOLK. That out of mere ambition you have caused Your holy hat to be stamped on the King’s coin.

SURREY. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance— By what means got, I leave to your own conscience— To furnish Rome and to prepare the ways You have for dignities, to the mere undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are, Which, since they are of you, and odious, I will not taint my mouth with.

CHAMBERLAIN. O my lord, Press not a falling man too far! ’Tis virtue. His faults lie open to the laws; let them, Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self.

SURREY. I forgive him.

SUFFOLK. Lord Cardinal, the King’s further pleasure is, Because all those things you have done of late By your power legative within this kingdom Fall into th’ compass of a praemunire, That therefore such a writ be sued against you To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be Out of the King’s protection. This is my charge.

NORFOLK. And so we’ll leave you to your meditations How to live better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us, The King shall know it and, no doubt, shall thank you. So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal.

[Exeunt all but Wolsey.]

WOLSEY. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell? A long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, standing amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

CROMWELL. I have no power to speak, sir.

WOLSEY. What, amazed At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fallen indeed.

CROMWELL. How does your Grace?

WOLSEY. Why, well. Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The King has cured me, I humbly thank his Grace, and from these shoulders, These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy: too much honour. O, ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

CROMWELL. I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it.

WOLSEY. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks, Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, To endure more miseries and greater far Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad?

CROMWELL. The heaviest and the worst Is your displeasure with the King.

WOLSEY. God bless him.

CROMWELL. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.

WOLSEY. That’s somewhat sudden. But he’s a learned man. May he continue Long in his Highness’ favour, and do justice For truth’s sake and his conscience, that his bones, When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on him. What more?

CROMWELL. That Cranmer is returned with welcome, Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

WOLSEY. That’s news indeed.

CROMWELL. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the King hath in secrecy long married, This day was viewed in open as his Queen, Going to chapel, and the voice is now Only about her coronation.

WOLSEY. There was the weight that pulled me down. O Cromwell, The King has gone beyond me. All my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever. No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell. I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the King; That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him What and how true thou art. He will advance thee; Some little memory of me will stir him— I know his noble nature—not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety.

CROMWELL. O my lord, Must I then leave you? Must I needs forgo So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. The King shall have my service, but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be yours.

WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let’s dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee; Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in, A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee. Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s. Then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the King. And, prithee, lead me in. There take an inventory of all I have. To the last penny; ’tis the King’s. My robe And my integrity to heaven is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

CROMWELL. Good sir, have patience.

WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell, The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene I — A street in Westminster

Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You’re well met once again.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your stand here and behold The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis all my business. At our last encounter, The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis very true. But that time offered sorrow, This, general joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis well. The citizens, I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds, As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever forward In celebration of this day with shows, Pageants, and sights of honour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Never greater, Nor, I’ll assure you, better taken, sir.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. May I be bold to ask what that contains, That paper in your hand?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, ’tis the list Of those that claim their offices this day By custom of the coronation. The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thank you, sir. Had I not known those customs, I should have been beholding to your paper. But I beseech you, what’s become of Katherine, The Princess Dowager? How goes her business?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned and reverend fathers of his order, Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off From Ampthill where the Princess lay; to which She was often cited by them, but appeared not; And, to be short, for not appearance and The King’s late scruple, by the main assent Of all these learned men she was divorced, And the late marriage made of none effect; Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Where she remains now sick.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Alas, good lady!

[Trumpets.]

The trumpets sound. Stand close. The Queen is coming.

The order of the coronation.

1. A lively flourish of trumpets. 2. Then, two Judges. 3. Lord Chancellor, with purse and mace before him. 4. Choristers, singing. Music. 5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt copper crown. 6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of Surrey, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet. Collars of S’s. 7. Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as High Steward. With him, the Duke of Norfolk, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of S’s. 8. A canopy, borne by four of the Cinque Ports; under it, the Queen in her robe, in her hair, richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London and Winchester. 9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen’s train. 10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers.

[Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets.]

SECOND GENTLEMAN. A royal train, believe me. These I know. Who’s that that bears the sceptre?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquess Dorset, And that the Earl of Surrey with the rod.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be The Duke of Suffolk.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis the same: High Steward.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of Norfolk?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. [Sees the Queen.] Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel. Our King has all the Indies in his arms, And more, and richer, when he strains that lady. I cannot blame his conscience.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. They that bear The cloth of honour over her are four barons Of the Cinque Ports.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy, and so are all are near her. I take it she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is, and all the rest are countesses.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. And sometimes falling ones.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. No more of that.

[Exit the last of the procession.]

Enter a third Gentleman.

God save you, sir. Where have you been broiling?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i’ th’ Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedged in more. I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw The ceremony?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. How was it?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able. The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen To a prepared place in the choir, fell off A distance from her, while her Grace sat down To rest a while, some half an hour or so, In a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man, which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud and to as many tunes. Hats, cloaks, Doublets, I think, flew up, and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living Could say “This is my wife” there, all were woven So strangely in one piece.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what followed?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar, where she kneeled and saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayed devoutly; Then rose again and bowed her to the people, When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen, As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her; which performed, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung Te Deum. So she parted, And with the same full state paced back again To York Place, where the feast is held.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, You must no more call it “York Place”, that’s past; For since the Cardinal fell, that title’s lost. ’Tis now the King’s, and called “Whitehall”.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it, But ’tis so lately altered that the old name Is fresh about me.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the Queen?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Stokesley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester, Newly preferred from the King’s secretary; The other, London.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop’s, The virtuous Cranmer.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that. However, yet there is no great breach. When it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteem with th’ King, and truly A worthy friend. The King has made him Master o’ th’ Jewel House, And one already of the Privy Council.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, Which is to th’ court, and there ye shall be my guests, Something I can command. As I walk thither, I’ll tell ye more.

BOTH. You may command us, sir.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene II — Kimbolton

Enter Katherine Dowager, sick, led between Griffith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman.

GRIFFITH. How does your Grace?

QUEEN KATHERINE. O Griffith, sick to death. My legs like loaden branches bow to th’ earth, Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.

[She sits.]

So. Now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledst me, That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?

GRIFFITH. Yes, madam, but I think your Grace, Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to’t.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died. If well, he stepped before me happily For my example.

GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam. For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York and brought him forward, As a man sorely tainted, to his answer, He fell sick suddenly and grew so ill He could not sit his mule.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Alas, poor man!

GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodged in the abbey, where the reverend abbot, With all his covent, honourably received him; To whom he gave these words: “O father abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye. Give him a little earth for charity.” So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still; and three nights after this, About the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

QUEEN KATHERINE. So may he rest. His faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that by suggestion Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair-play. His own opinion was his law. I’ th’ presence He would say untruths, and be ever double Both in his words and meaning. He was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His promises were, as he then was, mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example.

GRIFFITH. Noble madam, Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your Highness To hear me speak his good now?

QUEEN KATHERINE. Yes, good Griffith; I were malicious else.

GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely. Ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford, one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heaped happiness upon him, For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little. And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God.

QUEEN KATHERINE. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him! Patience, be near me still, and set me lower: I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to.

[Sad and solemn music.]

GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit down quiet, For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience.

The vision.

Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six Personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces, branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head, at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order. At which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing, vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone, And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

GRIFFITH. Madam, we are here.

QUEEN KATHERINE. It is not you I call for. Saw ye none enter since I slept?

GRIFFITH. None, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? They promised me eternal happiness And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly.

GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Bid the music leave, They are harsh and heavy to me.

[Music ceases.]

PATIENCE. Do you note How much her Grace is altered on the sudden? How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold? Mark her eyes.

GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray.

PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her!

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. An’t like your Grace—

QUEEN KATHERINE. You are a saucy fellow. Deserve we no more reverence?

GRIFFITH. You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel.

MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness’ pardon. My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman sent from the King to see you.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Admit him entrance, Griffith. But this fellow Let me ne’er see again.

[Exit Messenger.]

Enter Lord Caputius.

If my sight fail not, You should be lord ambassador from the Emperor, My royal nephew, and your name Caputius.

CAPUTIUS. Madam, the same. Your servant.

QUEEN KATHERINE. O my lord, The times and titles now are altered strangely With me since first you knew me. But I pray you, What is your pleasure with me?

CAPUTIUS. Noble lady, First, mine own service to your Grace; the next, The King’s request that I would visit you, Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me Sends you his princely commendations, And heartily entreats you take good comfort.

QUEEN KATHERINE. O my good lord, that comfort comes too late; ’Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic given in time had cured me, But now I am past all comforts here but prayers. How does his Highness?

CAPUTIUS. Madam, in good health.

QUEEN KATHERINE. So may he ever do, and ever flourish, When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banished the kingdom. Patience, is that letter I caused you write yet sent away?

PATIENCE. No, madam.

[Giving it to Katherine.]

QUEEN KATHERINE. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the King.

CAPUTIUS. Most willing, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. In which I have commended to his goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter— The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!— Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding— She is young and of a noble modest nature; I hope she will deserve well—and a little To love her for her mother’s sake that loved him, Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition Is that his noble Grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women, that so long Have followed both my fortunes faithfully; Of which there is not one, I dare avow— And now I should not lie—but will deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband. Let him be a noble; And sure those men are happy that shall have ’em. The last is for my men—they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw ’em from me— That they may have their wages duly paid ’em, And something over to remember me by. If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole contents, and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the King To do me this last right.

CAPUTIUS. By heaven, I will, Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

QUEEN KATHERINE. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his Highness. Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I blessed him, For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You must not leave me yet. I must to bed; Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench, Let me be used with honour. Strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, Then lay me forth. Although unqueened, yet like A queen and daughter to a king inter me. I can no more.

[Exeunt leading Katherine.]

Act V, Scene I — A gallery in the palace

Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell.

GARDINER. It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not?

PAGE. It hath struck.

GARDINER. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas! Whither so late?

LOVELL. Came you from the King, my lord?

GARDINER. I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk.

LOVELL. I must to him too, Before he go to bed. I’ll take my leave.

GARDINER. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the matter? It seems you are in haste. An if there be No great offence belongs to’t, give your friend Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk, As they say spirits do, at midnight have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks despatch by day.

LOVELL. My lord, I love you, And durst commend a secret to your ear Much weightier than this work. The Queen’s in labour— They say in great extremity, and feared She’ll with the labour end.

GARDINER. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas, I wish it grubbed up now.

LOVELL. Methinks I could Cry the amen, and yet my conscience says She’s a good creature and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes.

GARDINER. But, sir, sir, Hear me, Sir Thomas. You’re a gentleman Of mine own way. I know you wise, religious; And let me tell you, it will ne’er be well, ’Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take’t of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she Sleep in their graves.

LOVELL. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remarked i’ th’ kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the Jewel House, is made Master O’ th’ Rolls, and the King’s secretary; further, sir, Stands in the gap and trade of more preferments, With which the time will load him. Th’ Archbishop Is the King’s hand and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him?

GARDINER. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that dare, and I myself have ventured To speak my mind of him. And indeed this day, Sir—I may tell it you, I think—I have Incensed the lords o’ th’ Council, that he is— For so I know he is, they know he is— A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the land; with which they, moved, Have broken with the King, who hath so far Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded Tomorrow morning to the Council board He be convented. He’s a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long. Good night, Sir Thomas.

LOVELL. Many good nights, my lord. I rest your servant.

[Exeunt Gardiner and Page.]

Enter King and Suffolk.

KING. Charles, I will play no more tonight. My mind’s not on’t; you are too hard for me.

SUFFOLK. Sir, I did never win of you before.

KING. But little, Charles, Nor shall not, when my fancy’s on my play. Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news?

LOVELL. I could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I sent your message, who returned her thanks In the great’st humbleness, and desired your Highness Most heartily to pray for her.

KING. What sayst thou, ha? To pray for her? What, is she crying out?

LOVELL. So said her woman, and that her suff’rance made Almost each pang a death.

KING. Alas, good lady!

SUFFOLK. God safely quit her of her burden, and With gentle travail, to the gladding of Your Highness with an heir!

KING. ’Tis midnight, Charles. Prithee, to bed, and in thy prayers remember Th’ estate of my poor Queen. Leave me alone, For I must think of that which company Will not be friendly to.

SUFFOLK. I wish your Highness A quiet night, and my good mistress will Remember in my prayers.

KING. Charles, good night.

[Exit Suffolk.]

Enter Sir Anthony Denny.

Well, sir, what follows?

DENNY. Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop, As you commanded me.

KING. Ha! Canterbury?

DENNY. Ay, my good lord.

KING. ’Tis true. Where is he, Denny?

DENNY. He attends your Highness’ pleasure.

KING. Bring him to us.

[Exit Denny.]

LOVELL. [Aside.] This is about that which the Bishop spake. I am happily come hither.

Enter Cranmer and Denny.

KING. Avoid the gallery. [Lovell seems to stay.] Ha! I have said. Be gone. What!

[Exeunt Lovell and Denny.]

CRANMER. [Aside.] I am fearful. Wherefore frowns he thus? ’Tis his aspect of terror. All’s not well.

KING. How now, my lord? You do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you.

CRANMER. [Kneeling.] It is my duty T’ attend your Highness’ pleasure.

KING. Pray you, arise, My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and I must walk a turn together. I have news to tell you. Come, come, give me your hand. Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, And am right sorry to repeat what follows. I have, and most unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous—I do say, my lord, Grievous—complaints of you, which, being considered, Have moved us and our Council that you shall This morning come before us, where I know, You cannot with such freedom purge yourself But that, till further trial in those charges Which will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you and be well contented To make your house our Tower. You a brother of us, It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness Would come against you.

CRANMER. [Kneeling.] I humbly thank your Highness, And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed, where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder. For I know There’s none stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man.

KING. Stand up, good Canterbury! Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand. Stand up. Prithee, let’s walk. Now, by my halidom, What manner of man are you? My lord, I looked You would have given me your petition that I should have ta’en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers and to have heard you Without endurance, further.

CRANMER. Most dread liege, The good I stand on is my truth and honesty. If they shall fail, I with mine enemies Will triumph o’er my person, which I weigh not, Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me.

KING. Know you not How your state stands i’ th’ world, with the whole world? Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices Must bear the same proportion, and not ever The justice and the truth o’ th’ question carries The due o’ th’ verdict with it. At what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against you? Such things have been done. You are potently opposed, and with a malice Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean in perjured witness, than your master, Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to. You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your own destruction.

CRANMER. God and your Majesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me.

KING. Be of good cheer. They shall no more prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you, and this morning see You do appear before them. If they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with what vehemency Th’ occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties Will render you no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us There make before them. Look, the good man weeps! He’s honest, on mine honour. God’s blest mother, I swear he is true-hearted, and a soul None better in my kingdom.—Get you gone, And do as I have bid you.

[Exit Cranmer.]

He has strangled His language in his tears.

LOVELL. [Within.] Come back! What mean you?

Enter Old Lady; Lovell follows.

OLD LADY. I’ll not come back. The tidings that I bring Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels Fly o’er thy royal head and shade thy person Under their blessed wings!

KING. Now by thy looks I guess thy message. Is the Queen delivered? Say “Ay, and of a boy”.

OLD LADY. Ay, ay, my liege, And of a lovely boy. The God of heaven Both now and ever bless her! ’Tis a girl Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your Queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger. ’Tis as like you As cherry is to cherry.

KING. Lovell.

LOVELL. Sir?

KING. Give her an hundred marks. I’ll to the Queen.

[Exit King.]

OLD LADY. An hundred marks? By this light, I’ll ha’ more. An ordinary groom is for such payment. I will have more or scold it out of him. Said I for this the girl was like to him? I’ll have more, or else unsay’t. And now, While ’tis hot, I’ll put it to the issue.

[Exeunt.]