Gardiner.
It's one a 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, 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 Lovel; 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
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 word. 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—y'are 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 Lovel, 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, is made master
O'th' Rolls, and the King's Secretary. Further,
Stands in the gap and trade for more preferments,
With which the time will load him. Th' Arch-bishop
Is the King's hand, or tongue, and who dare speak
One syllable against him?

Gard.
Yes, Sir Thomas,
There are that dare; and I my self 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.

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