Gardiner.
It's one o'clock, boy, is't not?

Boy.
It hath struck.

Gard.
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?

Lov.
Came you from the King, my lord?

Gard.
I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at Primero
With the Duke of Suffolk.

Lov.
I must to him too,
Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave.

Gard.
Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell; what's the matter?
It seems, you are in haste: And 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
^{1 note}In them a wilder nature, than the business
That seeks dispatch by day.

Lov.
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; 'tis fear'd,

She'll with the labour end.

Gard.
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 grubb'd up now.

Lov.
Methinks, I could
Cry the Amen; and yet my conscience says,
She's a good creature, and (sweet lady) does
Deserve our better wishes.

Gard.
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.

Lov.
Now, Sir, you speak of two
The most remark'd i'th' kingdom; as for Cromwell,
Beside that of the jewel-house, he's made master
O' th' Rolls, and the King's Secretary: Further,
^{2 note}Stands in the gap and tread for 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?

Gard.
Yes, Sir Thomas,
There are that dare; and I myself have ventur'd
To speak my mind of him; indeed, this day,
(Sir, I may tell it you,) I think, I have
Incens'd the lords o'th' Council, that he is
(For so I know he is, they know he is)
A most arch heretick, a pestilence
That does infect the land; with which they mov'd,
Have broken with the King; who hath so far
Giv'n ear to our complaint, of his great Grace

And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs
Our reasons laid before him; he hath commanded,
To morrow 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. [Exeunt Gardiner and Page.

Lov.
Many good nights, my lord; I rest your Servant. [Exit Lovell.

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