Introductory matter ^note

INTRODUCTION.

The principal question, in relation to Shakespeare's “Henry the Eighth,” is, when it was written. We are satisfied, both by the internal and external evidence, that it came from the poet's pen after James I. had ascended the throne.

Independently of the whole character of the drama, which was little calculated to please Elizabeth, it seems to us that Cranmer's prophecy, in Act v. sc. 4, is quite decisive. There the poet first speaks of Elizabeth, and of the advantages derived from her rule, and then proceeds in the clearest manner to notice her successor:—

Ingenuity cannot pervert these lines to any other meaning; but it has been said that they, and some others which follow them, were a subsequent introduction; and, moreover, that they were the work of Ben Jonson, on some revival of the play in the reign of James I. There does not exist the slightest evidence to establish either proposition. Any person, reading the whole of Cranmer's speech at the christening, can hardly fail to perceive such an entireness and sequence of thoughts and words in it, as to make it very unlikely that it was not dictated by the same intellect, and written by the same pen. Malone and others made up their minds that “Henry the Eighth” was produced before the death of Elizabeth; and finding the passage we have quoted directly in the teeth of this supposition, they charged it as a subsequent addition, fixed the authorship of it upon a different poet, and printed it within brackets.

As to external evidence, there is one fact which has never had sufficient importance given to it. We allude to the following memorandum in the Registers of the Stationers' Company:—

“12 Feb. 1604
“Nath. Butter] Yf he get good allowance for the Enterlude of K. Henry 8th before he begyn to print it; and then procure the wardens hands to yt for the entrance of yt: he is to have the same for his copy.”

Chalmers asserted, without qualification, that this entry referred to a contemporaneous play by Samuel Rowley, under the title of “When you see me you know me,” 1605; but the “enterlude” is expressly called in the entry “K. Henry 8th,” and we feel no hesitation in concluding that it referred to Shakespeare's drama, which had probably been brought out at the Globe Theatre in the summer of 1604. The memorandum, judging from its terms, seems to have been made, not at the instance of Nathaniel Butter, the bookseller, but of the company to which Shakespeare belonged, and in order to prevent a surreptitious publication of the play. The “12 Feb. 1604,” was, of course, according to our present reckoning, the 12 Feb. 1605, and at that date Butter had not begun to print “Henry the Eighth.” No edition of it is known before it appeared in the folio of 1623, and we may infer that Butter failed in getting “good allowance” with “the wardens' hands to it.”

The Globe Theatre was destroyed on 29th June, 1613, the thatch with which it was covered having been fired by the discharge of some small pieces of ordnance. (Hist. of Engl. Dram. Poetry and the Stage, vol. iii. p. 298.) It has been stated by Howes, in his continuation of Stowe's Chronicle, that the play then in a course of representation was “Henry the Eighth;” but Sir Henry Wotton, who is very particular in his description of the calamity, asserts that the play was called “All is True.” There is little doubt that he is right, because a ballad, printed on the occasion, has the burden of “All is True” at the end of every stanza. The question then is, whether this was Shakespeare's “Henry the Eighth” under a different title, or a different play? Sir Henry Wotton informs us in terms that it was “a new play,” and as he was right in the title, we may have the more faith in his statement respecting the novelty of the performance.

In the instance of “Henry the Eighth,” as of many other works by our great dramatist, there is ground for believing that there existed a preceding play on the same story. Henslowe's Diary affords us some curious and important evidence on this point, unknown to Malone. According to this authority two plays were written in the year 1601 for the Earl of Nottingham's players, on the events of the life of Cardinal Wolsey, including necessarily some of the chief incidents of the reign of Henry VIII. These plays consisted of a first and second part, the one called “The Rising of Cardinal Wolsey,” and the other, “Cardinal Wolsey.” We collect that the last was produced first, and the success it met with on the stage was perhaps the occasion of the second drama, containing, in fact, the commencement of the story. Of this course of proceeding Henslowe's Diary furnishes several other examples.

The earliest entry relating to “Cardinal Wolsey,” (the second

play in the order of the incidents, though the earliest in point of production) is dated 5th June, 1601, when Henry Chettle was paid 20s. “for writing the book of Cardinal Wolsey.” On the 14th July he was paid 40s. more on the same account, and in the whole, between 5th June and 17th July, he was paid 5l., as large a sum as he usually obtained for a new play.

We have no positive testimony of the success of “Cardinal Wolsey,” of which Chettle was the sole author; but we are led to infer it, because very soon afterwards we find no fewer than four poets engaged upon the production of the drama under the title of “The Rising of Cardinal Wolsey,” which, doubtless, related to his early life, and to his gradual advance in the favour of Henry VIII. These four poets were Drayton, Chettle, Munday, and Wentworth Smith; and so many pens, we may conjecture, were employed, that the play might be brought out with all dispatch, in order to follow up the popularity of what may be looked upon as the second part of the same “history.” Another memorandum in Henslowe's Diary tends to the same conclusion, for it appears that the play was licensed piece-meal by the Master of the Revels, that it might be put into rehearsal as it proceeded, and represented immediately after it was finished.

A farther point established by the same authority is, that Henslowe expended an unusual amount in getting up the drama. On the 10th Aug. 1601, he paid no less than 21l. for “velvet, sattin, and taffeta” for the dresses, a sum equal now to about 100l. Upon the costumes only, in the whole, considerably more than 200l. were laid out, reckoning the value of money in 1601 at about five times its value at present.

We may conclude with tolerable certainty that Shakespeare wrote “Henry the Eighth” in the winter of 1603-4, and that it was first acted at the Globe soon after the commencement of the season there, which seems to have begun towards the close of April, as soon as a theatre open to the weather could be conveniently employed. The coronation procession of Anne Bullen forms a prominent feature in the drama; and as the coronation of James I. and Anne of Denmark took place on the 24th July, 1603, we may not unreasonably suppose that the audiences at the Globe were intended to be reminded of that event, and that the show, detailed with such unusual minuteness in the folio of 1623, was meant as a remote imitation of its splendour. The opinion, that Shakespeare's “Henry the Eighth” was undoubtedly written after the accession of James I., was expressed and printed by us nearly twenty years ago. The words “aged princess,” (no part of the imputed addition by Ben Jonson) would never have been used by Shakespeare during the life of Elizabeth.

1 ^note.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. CARDINAL WOLSEY. CARDINAL CAMPEIUS. CAPUCIUS, Ambassador from Charles V. CRANMER, Archbishop of Canterbury. DUKE OF NORFOLK. EARL OF SURREY. DUKE OF SUFFOLK. DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. LORD CHAMBERLAIN. LORD CHANCELLOR. GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester. BISHOP OF LINCOLN. LORD ABERGAVENNY. LORD SANDS [Lord Sandys]. SIR HENRY GUILDFORD. SIR THOMAS LOVELL. SIR ANTHONY DENNY. SIR NICHOLAS VAUX. Secretaries to Wolsey. CROMWELL, Servant to Wolsey. GRIFFITH, Gentleman-Usher to Queen Katharine. Three other Gentlemen [Gentleman 1], [Gentleman 2], [Gentleman 3] Garter, King at Arms. DOCTOR BUTTS, Physician to the King. Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham. BRANDON Sergeant at Arms. Door-keeper of the Council-Chamber [Doorkeeper]. Porter His Man. Page to Gardiner. A Crier. QUEEN KATHARINE, Wife to King Henry. ANNE BULLEN, her Maid of Honour. An old Lady [Old Lady], Friend to Anne Bullen. PATIENCE, Woman to Queen Katharine. Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Spirits, which appear to her; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants. [Servant], [Scribe], [Gentleman], [Messenger], [Secretary 1], [Prologue] SCENE, chiefly in London and Westminster; once, at Kimbolton.

KING HENRY VIII.

PROLOGUE.
I come no more to make you laugh: things now,
That bear a weighty and a serious brow,
Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,
Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,
We now present. Those that can pity, here
May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;
The subject will deserve it: such, as give
Their money out of hope they may believe,
May here find truth too: those, that come to see
Only a show or two, and so agree
The play may pass, if they be still and willing,
I'll undertake, may see away their shilling
Richly in two short hours. Only they,
That come to hear a merry, bawdy play,
A noise of targets, or to see a fellow
In a long motley coat, guarded with yellow^{1 note},
Will be deceiv'd; for, gentle hearers, know,
To rank our chosen truth with such a show
As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting
Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring,
To make that only true we now intend,
Will leave us never an understanding friend.
Therefore, for goodness' sake, and as you are known,
The first and happiest hearers of the town,

Be sad as we would make ye: think, ye see
The very persons of our noble story,
As they were living; think, you see them great,
And follow'd with the general throng, and sweat
Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see
How soon this mightiness meets misery:
And, if you can be merry then, I'll say,
A man may weep upon his wedding day.

ACT I. SCENE I. London. An Ante-chamber in the Palace. Enter the Duke of Norfolk, at one door; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Lord Abergavenny.

Buck.
Good morrow, and well met. How have you done,
Since last we saw in France?

Nor.
I thank your grace,
Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer
Of what I saw there.

Buck.
An untimely ague
Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber, when
Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,
Met in the vale of Andren.

Nor.
'Twixt Guynes and Arde:
I was then present, saw them salute on horseback;
Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung
In their embracement, as they grew together;
Which had they, what four thron'd ones could have weigh'd
Such a compounded one?

Buck.
All the whole time
I was my chamber's prisoner.

Nor.
Then you lost
The view of earthly glory: men might say,

Till this time, pomp was single; but now married
To one above itself. Each following day
Became the next day's master, till the last
Made former wonders it's: to-day the French
All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,
Shone down the English; and to-morrow they
Made Britain, India: every man that stood
Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were
As cherubins, all gilt: the madams, too,
Not us'd to toil, did almost sweat to bear
The pride upon them, that their very labour
Was to them as a painting: now this mask
Was cried incomparable; and the ensuing night
Made it a fool, and beggar. The two kings,
Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,
As presence did present them; him in eye,
Still him in praise; and, being present both,
'Twas said, they saw but one: and no discerner
Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns
(For so they phrase 'em) by their heralds challeng'd
The noble spirits to arms, they did perform
Beyond thought's compass; that former fabulous story,
Being now seen possible enough, got credit,
That Bevis was believ'd^{1 note}.

Buck.
O! you go far.

Nor.
As I belong to worship, and affect
In honour honesty, the tract of every thing
Would by a good discourser lose some life,
Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal:
To the disposing of it nought rebell'd;
Order gave each thing view; the office did
Distinctly his full function 11Q0797^{2 note}

Buck.
Who did guide,
I mean, who set the body and the limbs
Of this great sport together, as you guess^{3 note}?

Nor.
One, certes, that promises no element^{4 note}
In such a business.

Buck.
I pray you, who, my lord?

Nor.
All this was order'd by the good discretion
Of the right reverend cardinal of York.

Buck.
The devil speed him! no man's pie is freed
From his ambitious finger. What had he
To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder,
That such a keech^{5 note} can, with his very bulk,
Take up the rays o' the beneficial sun,
And keep it from the earth.

Nor.
Surely, sir,
There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends;
For, being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace
Chalks successors their way, nor call'd upon
For high feats done to the crown; neither allied
To eminent assistants, but, spider-like,
Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note^{6 note},

The force of his own merit makes his way;
A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys
A place next to the king.

Aber.
I cannot tell
What heaven hath given him: let some graver eye
Pierce into that; but I can see his pride
Peep through each part of him: whence has he that?
If not from hell, the devil is a niggard;
Or has given all before, and he begins
A new hell in himself.

Buck.
Why the devil,
Upon this French going-out, took he upon him,
(Without the privity o' the king) t' appoint
Who should attend on him? He makes up the file
Of all the gentry; for the most part such
Too, whom as great a charge as little honour
He meant to lay upon: and his own letter,
The honourable board of council out,
Must fetch him in he papers^{7 note}

.

Aber.
I do know
Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have
By this so sicken'd their estates, that never
They shall abound as formerly.

Buck.
O! many
Have broke their backs, with laying manors on them
For this great journey. What did this vanity,
But minister communication of
A most poor issue? 11Q0798

Nor.
Grievingly I think,
The peace between the French and us not values
The cost that did conclude it.

Buck.
Every man,
After the hideous storm that follow'd, was

A thing inspir'd; and, not consulting, broke
Into a general prophecy,—that this tempest,
Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded
The sudden breach on't.

Nor.
Which is budded out;
For France hath flaw'd the league, and hath attach'd
Our merchants' goods at Bourdeaux.

Aber.
Is it therefore
Th' ambassador is silenc'd?

Nor.
Marry, is't.

Aber.
A proper title of a peace, and purchas'd
At a superfluous rate.

Buck.
Why, all this business
Our reverend cardinal carried.

Nor.
'Like it your grace,
The state takes notice of the private difference
Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you,
(And take it from a heart that wishes towards you
Honour and plenteous safety) that you read
The cardinal's malice and his potency
Together: to consider farther, that
What his high hatred would effect wants not
A minister in his power. You know his nature,
That he's revengeful; and, I know, his sword
Hath a sharp edge: it's long, and't may be said,
It reaches far; and where 'twill not extend,
Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel;
You'll find it wholesome. Lo! where comes that rock,
That I advise your shunning. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, (the Purse borne before him,) certain of the Guard, and two Secretaries with Papers. The Cardinal in his passage fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain^{8 note}.

Wol.
The duke of Buckingham's surveyor? ha!

Where's his examination?

1 Secr.
Here, so please you.

Wol.
Is he in person ready?

1 Secr.
Ay, please your grace.

Wol.
Well, we shall then know more; and Buckingham
Shall lessen this big look. [Exeunt Wolsey, and Train.

Buck.
This butcher's cur is venom-mouth'd, and I
Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore, best
Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book
Out-worths a noble's blood. 11Q0799

Nor.
What! are you chaf'd?
Ask God for temperance; that's th' appliance only,
Which your disease requires.

Buck.
I read in's looks
Matter against me; and his eye revil'd
Me, as his abject object: at this instant
He bores me with some trick. He's gone t' the king:
I'll follow, and out-stare him.

Nor.
Stay, my lord,
And let your reason with your choler question
What 'tis you go about. To climb steep hills,
Requires slow pace at first: anger is like
A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way,
Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England
Can advise me like you: be to yourself,
As you would to your friend.

Buck.
I'll to the king;
And from a mouth of honour quite cry down
This Ipswich fellow's insolence, or proclaim
There's difference in no persons.

Nor.
Be advis'd;
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself: we may outrun
By violent swiftness that which we run at,
And lose by over-running. Know you not,

The fire, that mounts the liquor till't run o'er,
In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advis'd:
I say again, there is no English soul
More stronger to direct you than yourself,
If with the sap of reason you would quench,
Or but allay, the fire of passion.

Buck.
Sir,
I am thankful to you, and I'll go along
By your prescription; but this top-proud fellow,
Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but
From sincere motions, by intelligence,
And proofs as clear as founts in July, when
We see each grain of gravel, I do know
To be corrupt and treasonous.

Nor.
Say not, treasonous.

Buck.
To the king I'll say't, and make my vouch as strong
As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox,
Or wolf, or both, (for he is equal ravenous,
As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief,
As able to perform't, his mind and place
Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally)
Only to show his pomp, as well in France
As here at home, suggests the king, our master^{9 note},
To this last costly treaty, th' interview,
That swallow'd so much treasure, and like a glass
Did break i' the rinsing^{1 note note}.

Nor.
Faith, and so it did.

Buck.
Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning cardinal
The articles o' the combination drew,
As himself pleas'd; and they were ratified,

As he cried, “Thus let be,” to as much end,
As give a crutch t' the dead. But our count-cardinal
Has done this, and 'tis well; for worthy Wolsey,
Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,
(Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy
To the old dam, treason) Charles the emperor,
Under pretence to see the queen, his aunt,
(For 'twas, indeed, his colour, but he came
To whisper Wolsey) here makes visitation:
His fears were, that the interview betwixt
England and France, might, through their amity,
Breed him some prejudice; for from this league,
Peep'd harms that menac'd him. He privily^{2 note}
Deals with our cardinal, and, as I trow,
Which I do well; for, I am sure, the emperor
Paid ere he promis'd, whereby his suit was granted,
Ere it was ask'd: but when the way was made,
And pav'd with gold, the emperor thus desir'd:—
That he would please to alter the king's course,
And break the foresaid peace. Let the king know,
(As soon he shall by me) that thus the cardinal
Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases,
And for his own advantage.

Nor.
I am sorry
To hear this of him; and could wish he were
Something mistaken in't.

Buck.
No, not a syllable:
I do pronounce him in that very shape,
He shall appear in proof. Enter Brandon; a Sergeant at Arms before him, and two or three of the Guard.

Bran.
Your office, sergeant; execute it.

Serg.
Sir,
My lord the duke of Buckingham, and earl

Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I
Arrest thee of high treason, in the name
Of our most sovereign king.

Buck.
Lo, you, my lord!
The net has fall'n upon me: I shall perish
Under device and practice.

Bran.
I am sorry
To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on
The business present. 'Tis his highness' pleasure,
You shall to the Tower.

Buck.
It will help me nothing,
To plead mine innocence; for that die is on me,
Which makes my whit'st part black. The will of heaven
Be done in this and all things.—I obey.—
O! my lord Aberga'ny, fare you well.

Bran.
Nay, he must bear you company.—The king [To Abergavenny.
Is pleas'd you shall to the Tower, till you know
How he determines farther.

Aber.
As the duke said,
The will of heaven be done, and the king's pleasure
By me obey'd.

Bran.
Here is a warrant from
The king t' attach lord Montacute; and the bodies
Of the duke's confessor, John de la Car,
One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,—

Buck.
So, so;
These are the limbs o' the plot. No more, I hope.

Bran.
A monk o' the Chartreux.

Buck.
O! Nicholas Hopkins^{3 note}?

Bran.
He.

Buck.
My surveyor is false: the o'er-great cardinal

Hath show'd him gold. My life is spann'd already:
I am the shadow of poor Buckingham,
Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,
By darkening my clear sun^{4 note}

.—My lord, farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Council-Chamber. Cornets. Enter King Henry, Cardinal Wolsey, the Lords of the Council, Sir Thomas Lovell, Officers, Attendant. The King enters leaning on the Cardinal's Shoulder^{5 note}.

K. Hen.
My life itself, and the best heart of it,
Thanks you for this great care. I stood i' the level
Of a full charg'd confederacy, and give thanks
To you that chok'd it.—Let be call'd before us
That gentleman of Buckingham's: in person
I'll hear him his confessions justify,
And point by point the treasons of his master
He shall again relate. The King takes his State. The Lords of the Council occupy their several Places. The Cardinal places himself under the King's Feet on his right Side. A Noise within, crying Room for the Queen. Enter the Queen, ushered by the Dukes of Norfolk and

Suffolk: she kneels. The King riseth from his State, takes her up, kisses, and placeth her by him.

Q. Kath.
Nay, we must longer kneel: I am a suitor.

K. Hen.
Arise, and take place by us.—Half your suit
Never name to us; you have half our power:
The other moiety, ere you ask, is given;
Repeat your will, and take it.

Q. Kath.
Thank your majesty.
That you would love yourself, and in that love
Not unconsider'd leave your honour, nor
The dignity of your office, is the point
Of my petition.

K. Hen.
Lady mine, proceed.

Q. Kath.
I am solicited not by a few,
And those of true condition, that your subjects
Are in great grievance. There have been commissions
Sent down among them, which hath flaw'd the heart
Of all their loyalties: wherein, although,
My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches
Most bitterly on you, as putter-on
Of these exactions, yet the king our master,
Whose honour heaven shield from soil! even he escapes not
Language unmannerly; yea, such which breaks
The sides of loyalty, 11Q0800 and almost appears
In loud rebellion.

Nor.
Not almost appears,
It doth appear; for upon these taxations,
The clothiers all, not able to maintain
The many to them 'longing, have put off
The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,
Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger
And lack of other means, in desperate manner
Daring th' event to the teeth, are all in uproar,

And danger serves among them.

K. Hen.
Taxation!
Wherein? and what taxation?—My lord cardinal,
You that are blam'd for it alike with us,
Know you of this taxation?

Wol.
Please you, sir,
I know but of a single part, in ought
Pertains to the state; and front but in that file
Where others tell steps with me.

Q. Kath.
No, my lord,
You know no more than others; but you frame
Things, that are known alike, which are not wholesome
To those which would not know them, and yet must
Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,
Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are
Most pestilent to the hearing; and, to bear them,
The back is sacrifice to the load. They say,
They are devis'd by you, or else you suffer
Too hard an exclamation.

K. Hen.
Still exaction!
The nature of it? In what kind, let's know,
Is this exaction?

Q. Kath.
I am much too venturous
In tempting of your patience; but am bolden'd
Under your promis'd pardon. The subjects' grief
Comes through commissions, which compel from each
The sixth part of his substance, to be levied
Without delay; and the pretence for this
Is nam'd, your wars in France. This makes bold mouths:
Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze
Allegiance in them: their curses now,
Live where their prayers did; and it's come to pass,
This tractable obedience is a slave
To each incensed will. I would, your highness
Would give it quick consideration, for

There is no primer baseness^{6 note}.

K. Hen.
By my life,
This is against our pleasure.

Wol.
And for me,
I have no farther gone in this, than by
A single voice, and that not pass'd me but
By learned approbation of the judges. If I am
Traduc'd by ignorant tongues, which neither know
My faculties, nor person, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing, let me say,
'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake
That virtue must go through. We must not stint
Our necessary actions, in the fear
To cope malicious censurers; which ever,
As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow
That is new trimm'd, but benefit no farther
Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,
By sick interpreters (once weak ones^{7 note}) is
Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft,
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up
For our best act. If we shall stand still,
In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,
We should take root here, where we sit, or sit
State statues only.

K. Hen.
Things done well,
And with a care, exempt themselves from fear:
Things done without example, in their issue
Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent
Of this commission? I believe, not any.
We must not rend our subjects from our laws,

And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?
A trembling contribution! Why, we take,
From every tree, lop, bark, and part o' the timber;
And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd,
The air will drink the sap. To every county
Where this is question'd send our letters, with
Free pardon to each man that has denied
The force of this commission. Pray, look to't;
I put it to your care.

Wol.
A word with you. [To the Secretary.
Let there be letters writ to every shire,
Of the king's grace and pardon. The griev'd commons
Hardly conceive of me: let it be nois'd,
That through our intercession this revokement
And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you
Farther in the proceeding. [Exit Secretary. Enter Surveyor.

Q. Kath.
I am sorry that the duke of Buckingham
Is run in your displeasure.

K. Hen.
It grieves many:
The gentleman is learn'd, and a most rare speaker;
To nature none more bound; his training such,
That he may furnish and instruct great teachers,
And never seek for aid out of himself: yet see,
When these so noble benefits shall prove
Not well dispos'd, the mind growing once corrupt,
They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly
Than ever they were fair. This man so complete,
Who was enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we,
Almost with ravish'd list'ning, could not find
His hour of speech a minute; he, my lady,
Hath into monstrous habits put the graces
That once were his, and is become as black
As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear
(This was his gentleman in trust) of him

Things to strike honour sad.—Bid him recount
The fore-recited practices, whereof
We cannot feel too little, hear too much.

Wol.
Stand forth; and with bold spirit relate what you,
Most like a careful subject, have collected
Out of the duke of Buckingham.

K. Hen.
Speak freely,

Surv.
First, it was usual with him, every day
It would infect his speech, that if the king
Should without issue die, he'd carry it so^{8 note}
To make the sceptre his. These very words
I've heard him utter to his son-in-law,
Lord Aberga'ny, to whom by oath he menac'd
Revenge upon the cardinal.

Wol.
Please your highness, note
This dangerous conception in this point.
Not friended by his wish, to your high person
His will is most malignant; and it stretches
Beyond you, to your friends.

Q. Kath.
My learn'd lord cardinal,
Deliver all with charity.

K. Hen.
Speak on.
How grounded he his title to the crown,
Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him
At any time speak aught?

Surv.
He was brought to this
By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins^{9 note}.

K. Hen.
What was that Hopkins?

Surv.
Sir, a Chartreux friar,
His confessor; who fed him every minute
With words of sovereignty.

K. Hen.
How know'st thou this?

Surv.
Not long before your highness sped to France,
The duke being at the Rose, within the parish
Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand
What was the speech among the Londoners
Concerning the French journey? I replied,
Men fear'd the French would prove perfidious,
To the king's danger. Presently the duke
Said, 'twas the fear, indeed; and that he doubted,
'Twould prove the verity of certain words
Spoke by a holy monk; “that oft,” says he,
“Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit
John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour
To hear from him a matter of some moment:
Whom after, under the confession's seal 11Q0801^{1 note},
He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke
My chaplain to no creature living, but
To me, should utter, with demure confidence
This pausingly ensu'd,—Neither the king, nor's heirs,
(Tell you the duke) shall prosper: bid him strive
To gain the love^{2 note}

o' the commonalty: the duke
Shall govern England.”

Q. Kath.
If I know you well,
You were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office
On the complaint o' the tenants: take good heed,
You charge not in your spleen a noble person,
And spoil your nobler soul. I say, take heed;
Yes, heartily beseech you.

K. Hen.
Let him on.—
Go forward.

Surv.
On my soul, I'll speak but truth.

I told my lord the duke, by the devil's illusions
The monk might be deceiv'd; and that 'twas dangerous for him^{3 note},
To ruminate on this so far, until
It forg'd him some design, which, being believ'd,
It was much like to do: He answer'd, “Tush!
It can do me no damage:” adding farther,
That had the king in his last sickness fail'd,
The cardinal's and sir Thomas Lovell's heads
Should have gone off.

K. Hen.
Ha! what, so rank? Ah, ha!
There's mischief in this man.—Canst thou say farther?

Surv.
I can, my liege.

K. Hen.
Proceed.

Surv.
Being at Greenwich,
After your highness had reprov'd the duke
About sir William Blomer,—

K. Hen.
I remember,
Of such a time: being my sworn servant,
The duke retain'd him his.—But on: what hence?

Surv.
“If,” quoth he, “I for this had been committed,
As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play'd
The part my father meant to act upon
Th' usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury,
Made suit to come in's presence, which if granted,
As he made semblance of his duty, would
Have put his knife into him.”

K. Hen.
A giant traitor!

Wol.
Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom,
And this man out of prison?

Q. Kath.
God mend all!

K. Hen.
There's something more would out of thee: what say'st?

Surv.
After “the duke his father,” with “the knife,”
He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger,
Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes,
He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenor
Was,—were he evil us'd, he would out-go
His father, by as much as a performance
Does an irresolute purpose.

K. Hen.
There's his period,
To sheath his knife in us. He is attach'd;
Call him to present trial: if he may
Find mercy in the law, 'tis his; if none,
Let him not seek't of us. By day and night,
He's traitor to the height. 11Q0802 [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Room in the Palace. Enter the Lord Chamberlain, and Lord Sands.

Cham.
Is't possible, the spells of France should juggle
Men into such strange mysteries?

Sands.
New customs,
Though they be never so ridiculous,
Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd.

Cham.
As far as I see, all the good our English
Have got by the late voyage is but merely
A fit or two o' the face; but they are shrewd ones,
For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly,
Their very noses had been counsellors
To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

Sands.
They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it,
That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin,
A springhalt reign'd among them.

Cham.
Death! my lord,
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too^{4 note},
That, sure, they've worn out christendom. How now?
What news, sir Thomas Lovell? Enter Sir Thomas Lovell.

Lov.
'Faith, my lord,
I hear of none, but the new proclamation
That's clapp'd upon the court-gate.

Cham.
What is't for?

Lov.
The reformation of our travell'd gallants,
That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

Cham.
I am glad 'tis there: now, I would pray our monsieurs
To think an English courtier may be wise,
And never see the Louvre.

Lov.
They must either
(For so run the conditions) leave those remnants
Of fool, and feather, that they got in France,
With all their honourable points of ignorance
Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks;
Abusing better men than they can be,
Out of a foreign wisdom; renouncing clean
The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings,
Short blister'd breeches, and those types of travel,
And understand again like honest men,
Or pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,
They may, cum privilegio, wear away
The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh'd at.

Sands.
'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases
Are grown so catching.

Cham.
What a loss our ladies
Will have of these trim vanities.

Lov.
Ay, marry,

There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons
Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies;
A French song, and a fiddle, has no fellow.

Sands.
The devil fiddle them! I am glad they're going,
For, sure, there's no converting of them: now,
An honest country lord, as I am, beaten
A long time out of play, may bring his plain-song,
And have an hour of hearing, and, by'r-lady,
Held current music too.

Cham.
Well said, lord Sands:
Your colt's tooth is not cast yet.

Sands.
No, my lord;
Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Cham.
Sir Thomas,
Whither were you a going?

Lov.
To the cardinal's.
Your lordship is a guest too.

Cham.
O! 'tis true:
This night he makes a supper, and a great one,
To many lords and ladies: there will be
The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you.

Lov.
That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us:
His dews fall every where.

Cham.
No doubt, he's noble;
He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Sands.
He may, my lord, he has wherewithal: in him,
Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine.
Men of his way should be most liberal;
They are set here for examples. 11Q0803

Cham.
True, they are so;
But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;
Your lordship shall along:—Come, good sir Thomas,
We shall be late else; which I would not be,

For I was spoke to, with sir Henry Guildford,
This night to be comptrollers.

Sands.
I am your lordship's. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The Presence-Chamber in York-Place. Hautboys. A small Table under a State for the Cardinal, a longer Table for the Guests; then enter Anne Bullen, and divers Lords, Ladies, and Gentlewomen, as Guests, at one door; at another door, enter Sir Henry Guildford.

Guild.
Ladies, a general welcome from his grace
Salutes ye all: this night he dedicates
To fair content, and you. None here, he hopes,
In all this noble bevy, has brought with her
One care abroad: he would have all as merry
As first good company^{5 note}, good wine, good welcome
Can make good people.—O, my lord! y'are tardy; Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Sir Thomas Lovell.
The very thought of this fair company
Clapp'd wings to me.

Cham.
You are young, sir Harry Guildford.

Sands.
Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal
But half my lay-thoughts in him, some of these

Should find a running banquet ere they rested,
I think, would better please 'em: by my life,
They are a sweet society of fair ones.

Lov.
O! that your lordship were but now confessor
To one or two of these.

Sands.
I would, I were;
They should find easy penance.

Lov.
Faith, how easy?

Sands.
As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

Cham.
Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,
Place you that side, I'll take the charge of this:
His grace is entering.—Nay, you must not freeze;
Two women plac'd together makes cold weather:—
My lord Sands, you are one will keep 'em waking;
Pray, sit between these ladies.

Sands.
By my faith,
And thank your lordship.—By your leave, sweet ladies: [Seats himself between Anne Bullen and another Lady.
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;
I had it from my father.

Anne.
Was he mad, sir?

Sands.
O! very mad, exceeding mad; in love too;
But he would bite none: just as I do now,
He would kiss you twenty with a breath. [Kisses her.

Cham.
Well said, my lord.—
So, now you are fairly seated.—Gentlemen,
The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies
Pass away frowning.

Sands.
For my little cure,
Let me alone. Hautboys. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, attended, and takes his state.

Wol.
Y'are welcome, my fair guests: that noble lady,

Or gentleman, that is not freely merry,
Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome;
And to you all good health. [Drinks.

Sands.
Your grace is noble:
Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks,
And save me so much talking.

Wol.
My lord Sands,
I am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours.—
Ladies, you are not merry:—gentlemen,
Whose fault is this?

Sands.
The red wine first must rise
In their fair cheeks, my lord; then, we shall have 'em
Talk us to silence.

Anne.
You are a merry gamester,
My lord Sands.

Sands.
Yes, if I make my play.
Here's to your ladyship; and pledge it, madam,
For 'tis to such a thing,—

Anne.
You cannot show me.

Sands.
I told your grace, they would talk anon. [Drum and Trumpets within; Chambers discharged^{6 note}.

Wol.
What's that?

Cham.
Look out there, some of you. [Exit a Servant.

Wol.
What warlike voice,
And to what end is this?—Nay, ladies, fear not;
By all the laws of war y'are privileg'd. Re-enter Servant.

Cham.
How now! what is't?

Serv.
A noble troop of strangers,
For so they seem: they've left their barge, and landed;
And hither make, as great ambassadors
From foreign princes.

Wol.
Good lord chamberlain,

Go, give them welcome; you can speak the French tongue:
And, pray, receive them nobly, and conduct them
Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty
Shall shine at full upon them.—Some attend him.— [Exit Chamberlain attended. All arise, and Tables removed.
You have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend it.
A good digestion to you all; and, once more,
I shower a welcome on ye.—Welcome all. Hautboys. Enter the King, and Others, as Maskers, habited like Shepherds, ushered by the Lord Chamberlain. They pass directly before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute him^{7 note}.
A noble company! what are their pleasures?

Cham.
Because they speak no English, thus they pray'd
To tell your grace: 11Q0804—That, having heard by fame
Of this so noble and so fair assembly
This night to meet here, they could do no less,
Out of the great respect they bear to beauty,
But leave their flocks, and under your fair conduct,
Crave leave to view these ladies, and entreat
An hour of revels with them.

Wol.
Say, lord chamberlain,
They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay them
A thousand thanks, and pray them take their pleasures. [Ladies chosen for the Dance. The King takes Anne Bullen.

K. Hen.
The fairest hand I ever touch'd. O, beauty!
Till now I never knew thee. [Music. Dance.

Wol.
My lord,—

Cham.
Your grace?

Wol.
Pray tell them thus much from me.
There should be one amongst them, by his person,
More worthy this place than myself; to whom,
If I but knew him, with my love and duty
I would surrender it.

Cham.
I will, my lord. [Cham. goes to the Maskers, and returns.

Wol.
What say they?

Cham.
Such a one, they all confess,
There is, indeed; which they would have your grace
Find out, and he will take it.

Wol.
Let me see then.— [Comes from his State.
By all your good leaves, gentlemen; here I'll make
My royal choice.

K. Hen.
You have found him, cardinal. [Unmasking.
You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord:
You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, cardinal,
I should judge now unhappily.

Wol.
I am glad,
Your grace is grown so pleasant.

K. Hen.
My lord chamberlain,
Pr'ythee, come hither. What fair lady's that?

Cham.
An't please your grace, sir Thomas Bullen's daughter,—
The viscount Rochford,—one of her highness' women.

K. Hen.
By heaven, she is a dainty one.—Sweetheart,
I were unmannerly to take you out,
And not to kiss you.—A health, gentlemen!
Let it go round.

Wol.
Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready
I' the privy chamber?

Lov.
Yes, my lord.

Wol.
Your grace,

I fear, with dancing is a little heated.

K. Hen.
I fear, too much.

Wol.
There's fresher air, my lord,
In the next chamber.

K. Hen.
Lead in your ladies, every one.—Sweet partner,
I must not yet forsake you.—Let's be merry,
Good my lord cardinal: I have half a dozen healths
To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure
To lead them once again; and then let's dream
Who's best in favour.—Let the music knock it^{8 note}
. [Exeunt with Trumpets. ACT II. SCENE I. A Street. Enter Two Gentlemen, meeting.

1 Gent.
Whither away so fast?

2 Gent.
O!—God save you.
E'en to the hall, to hear what shall become
Of the great duke of Buckingham.

1 Gent.
I'll save you
That labour, sir. All's now done, but the ceremony
Of bringing back the prisoner.

2 Gent.
Were you there?

1 Gent.
Yes, indeed, was I.

2 Gent.
Pray, speak what has happen'd.

1 Gent.
You may guess quickly what.

2 Gent.
Is he found guilty?

1 Gent.
Yes, truly is he, and condemn'd upon it.

2 Gent.
I am sorry for't.

1 Gent.
So are a number more.

2 Gent.
But, pray, how pass'd it?

1 Gent.
I'll tell you in a little. The great duke
Came to the bar; where, to his accusations
He pleaded still not guilty, and alleg'd
Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.
The king's attorney, on the contrary,
Urg'd on the examinations, proofs, confessions
Of divers witnesses, which the duke desir'd
To have brought^{9 note}, vivâ 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.

2 Gent.
That was he,
That fed him with his prophecies?

1 Gent.
The same.
All these accus'd 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.

2 Gent.
After all this, how did he bear himself?

1 Gent.
When he was brought again to the bar, to hear
His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd
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 show'd a most noble patience.

2 Gent.
I do not think, he fears death.

1 Gent.
Sure, he does not;
He was never so womanish: the cause

He may a little grieve at.

2 Gent.
Certainly,
The cardinal is the end of this.

1 Gent.
'Tis likely,
By all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder,
Then deputy of Ireland; who remov'd,
Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,
Lest he should help his father.

2 Gent.
That trick of state
Was a deep envious one.

1 Gent.
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.

2 Gent.
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—

1 Gent.
Stay there, sir;
And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of. 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 Sands^{1 note}, and common People.

2 Gent.
Let's stand close, and behold him.

Buck.
All good people,
You that thus far have come to pity me, 11Q0805
Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.
I have this day receiv'd a traitor's judgment,
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,
It has done upon the premises but justice;
But those that sought it I could wish more Christians:
Be what they will, I heartily forgive them.
Yet let them look they glory not in mischief,
Nor build their evils on the graves of great men;
For then my guiltless blood must cry against them.
For farther 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 lov'd 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, o' God's name.

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

Buck.
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 can not take peace with: no black envy
Shall make 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^{2 note},
Shall cry for blessings on him: may he live
Longer than I have time to tell his years!
Ever belov'd, and loving, may his rule be!

And when old time shall lead him to his end,
Goodness and he fill up one monument!

Lov.
To the water side 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.

Buck.
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 them one day groan for't.
My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,
Who first rais'd head against usurping Richard,
Flying for succour to his servant Banister,
Being distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd,
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,
Restor'd 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 lov'd 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^{3 note}; 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 Buckingham, &c.

1 Gent.
O! this is full of pity.—Sir, it calls,
I fear, too many curses on their heads
That were the authors.

2 Gent.
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.

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

2 Gent.
This secret is so weighty, 'twill require
A strong faith to conceal it.

1 Gent.
Let me have it:
I do not talk much.

2 Gent.
I am confident:
You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear
A buzzing of a separation
Between the king and Katharine?

1 Gent.
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.

2 Gent.
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 possess'd him with a scruple,
That will undo her: to confirm this, too,
Cardinal Campeius is arriv'd, and lately,
As all think, for this business.

1 Gent.
'Tis the cardinal;
And merely to revenge him on the emperor,
For not bestowing on him, at his asking,
The archbishoprick of Toledo, this is purpos'd.

2 Gent.
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.

1 Gent.
'Tis woful.
We are too open here to argue this;
Let's think in private more. [Exeunt. SCENE II. An Ante-chamber in the Palace. Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a Letter. 11Q0806

Cham.

“My Lord,—The horses your lordship sent for, with all the care I 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 them from me; with this reason,—his master would be served before a subject, if not before the king; which stopped our mouths, sir.”

Enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.

Nor.
Well met, my lord chamberlain.

Cham.
Good day to both your graces.

Suf.
How is the king employ'd?

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

Nor.
What's the cause?

Cham.
It seems, the marriage with his brother's wife
Has crept too near his conscience.

Suf.
No; his conscience
Has crept too near another lady.

Nor.
'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.

Suf.
Pray God, he do: he'll never know himself else.

Nor.
How holily he works in all his business,
And with what zeal; for, now he has crack'd 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?

Cham.
Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true,
These news are every where; every tongue speaks them,

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.

Suf.
And free us from his slavery.

Nor.
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 fashion'd
Into what pitch he please.

Suf.
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.

Nor.
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?

Cham.
Excuse me;
The king hath sent me other-where: besides,
You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him.
Health to your lorships.

Nor.
Thanks, my good lord chamberlain. [Exit Lord Chamberlain. Norfolk opens a folding-door. The King is discovered sitting, and reading pensively^{4 note}.

Suf.
How sad he looks: sure, he is much afflicted.

K. Hen.
Who is there? ha!

Nor.
Pray God, he be not angry.

K. Hen.
Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves
Into my private meditations?
Who am I? ha!

Nor.
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.

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

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

K. Hen.
We are busy: go. [To Norfolk and Suffolk.

Nor.
This priest has no pride in him.

Suf.
Not to speak of;
I would not be so sick though for his place:
But this cannot continue. Aside.

Nor.
If it do,
I'll venture one have at him. Aside.

Suf.
I another. Aside. [Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk.

Wol.
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^{5 note}: Rome, the nurse of judgment,
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.

K. Hen.
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 wish'd for.

Cam.
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 join'd with me, their servant,
In the unpartial judging of this business.

K. Hen.
Two equal men. The queen shall be acquainted
Forthwith for what you come.—Where's Gardiner?

Wol.
I know, your majesty has always lov'd her
So dear in heart, not to deny her that
A woman of less place might ask by law,
Scholars, allow'd freely to argue for her.

K. Hen.
Ay, and the best, she shall have; and my favour
To him that does best: God forbid else. Cardinal,
Pr'ythee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary:
I find him a fit fellow. [Exit Wolsey. Re-enter Wolsey, with Gardiner.

Wol.
Give me your hand; much joy and favour to you:
You are the king's now.

Gard.
But to be commanded
For ever by your grace, whose hand has rais'd me.

K. Hen.
Come hither, Gardiner. [They walk and whisper.

Cam.
My lord of York, was not one doctor Pace
In this man's place before him?

Wol.
Yes, he was.

Cam.
Was he not held a learned man?

Wol.
Yes, surely.

Cam.
Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread, then,
Even of yourself, lord cardinal.

Wol.
How! of me?

Cam.
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 griev'd him,
That he ran mad, and died.

Wol.
Heaven'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 grip'd by meaner persons.

K. Hen.
Deliver this with modesty to the queen. [Exit Gardiner.
The most convenient place that I can think of,
For such receipt of learning, is Black-Friars:

There ye shall meet about this weighty business.—
My Wolsey, see it furnish'd.—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. SCENE III. An Ante-chamber in 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 liv'd 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 enthron'd,
Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which
To leave, a thousand-fold 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 L.
Hearts of most hard temper
Melt and lament for her.

Anne.
O, God's will! much better,
She ne'er had known pomp: though it be temporal,
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce^{6 note}
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging
As soul and body's severing. 11Q0807

Old L.
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 perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow^{7 note}.

Old L.
Our content
Is our best having.

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

Old L.
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^{8 note} would receive,
If you might please to stretch it.

Anne.
Nay, good troth,—

Old L.
Yes, troth, and troth.—You would not be a queen?

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

Old L.
'Tis strange: a three-pence 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 L.
Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little^{9 note}:
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 L.
In faith, for little England
You'd venture an emballing^{10 note}: I myself
Would for Carnarvonshire, although there 'long'd
No more to the crown but that. Lo! who comes here? Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.
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.

Cham.
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!

Cham.
You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings
Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,
Perceive I speak sincerely, and high notes

Ta'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty
Commends his good opinion of you to 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 hallow'd, 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.

Cham.
Lady,
I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit,
The king hath of you. 11Q0808—I have perus'd her well: [Aside.
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?—[To her.] I'll to the king,
And say, I spoke with you.

Anne.
My honour'd lord. [Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Old L.
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 compell'd fortune!) have your mouth fill'd up,
Before you open it.

Anne.
This is strange to me.

Old L.
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 L.
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: 11Q0809 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 L.
What do you think me? [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Hall in Black-friars. 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 Wolsey and Campeius; 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 at some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of a consistory; below them, the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the stage^{1 note}.

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

K. Hen.
What's the need?
It hath already publicly been read,
And on all sides th' authority allow'd;
You may, then, spare that time.

Wol.
Be't so.—Proceed.

Scribe.
Say, Henry king of England, come into the court.

Crier.
Henry king of England, &c.

K. Hen.
Here.

Scribe.
Say, Katharine queen of England, come into the court.

Crier.
Katharine, queen of England, &c. [The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court^{2 note}, comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks.]

Q. Kath.
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 inclin'd. 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 deriv'd your anger, did I
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice
He was from thence discharg'd. Sir, call to mind
That I have been your wife, in this obedience,
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest
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. 11Q0810 Please you, sir,
The king, your father, was reputed for
A prince most prudent, of an excellent
And unmatch'd wit and judgment: Ferdinand,
My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one
The wisest prince, that there had reign'd by many
A year before: it is not to be question'd
That they had gather'd a wise council to them
Of every realm, that did debate this business,
Who deem'd our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may
Be by my friends in Spain advis'd, whose counsel
I will implore: if not, i' the name of God,
Your pleasure be fulfill'd!

Wol.
You have here, lady,
(And of your choice) these reverend fathers; men
Of singular integrity and learning,
Yea, the elect o' the 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.

Cam.
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 produce'd and heard.

Q. Kath.
Lord cardinal,
To you I speak.

Wol.
Your pleasure, madam?

Q. Kath.
Sir,
I am about to weep; but, thinking that
We are a queen, (or long have dream'd so) certain
The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
I'll turn to sparks of fire.

Wol.
Be patient yet.

Q. Kath.
I will, when you are humble; nay, before,
Or God will punish me. I do believe,
Induc'd 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.

Wol.
I do profess,
You speak not like yourself; who ever yet
Have stood to charity, and display'd 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 farther 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.

Q. Kath.
My lord, my lord,
I am a simple woman, much too weak
To oppose your cunning. Y'are meek, and humble-mouth'd;
You sign your place and calling^{3 note} in full seeming,
With meekness and humility; but your heart
Is cramm'd 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 judg'd by him. [She curtsies to the King, and offers to depart.

Cam.
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.

K. Hen.
Call her again.

Crier.
Katharine, queen of England, come into the court.

Gent. Ush.
Madam, you are call'd back^{4 note}.

Q. Kath.
What need you note it? pray you, keep your way:
When you are call'd, 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.

K. Hen.
Go thy ways, Kate:
That man i' the world who shall report he has
A better wife, let him in nought 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.

Wol.
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 robb'd and bound,
There must I be unloos'd, 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?

K. Hen.
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. Y'are excus'd;
But will you be more justified? you ever
Have wish'd the sleeping of this business; never
Desir'd it to be stirr'd; but oft have hinder'd, 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 mov'd 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 utter'd
By the bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador;
Who had been hither sent on the debating,
A marriage^{5 note}
'twixt the duke of Orleans and

Our daughter Mary. I' the 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, enter'd me,
Yea, with a splitting power^{6 note}, and made to tremble
The region of my breast; which forc'd such way,
That many maz'd considerings did throng,
And press'd 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 conceiv'd a male child by me, should
Do no more offices of life to't, than
The grave does to the dead; for her male issue
Or died where they were made, or shortly after
This world had air'd them. Hence I took a thought,
This was a judgment on me; that my kingdom,
Well worthy the best heir o' the world, should not
Be gladded in't by me. Then follows, that
I weigh'd 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^{7 note}
, 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 learn'd. First, I began in private

With you, my lord of Lincoln: you remember
How under my oppression I did reek,
When I first mov'd you.

Lin.
Very well, my liege.

K. Hen.
I have spoke long: be pleas'd yourself to say
How far you satisfied me.

Lin.
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.

K. Hen.
I then mov'd 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' the world against the person
Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points
Of my alleged reasons drive 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,
Katharine our queen, before the primest creature
That's paragon'd o' the world.

Cam.
So please your highness,
The queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness
That we adjourn this court till farther day:
Meanwhile must be an earnest motion
Made to the queen, to call back her appeal
She intends unto his holiness.

K. Hen.
I may perceive, [Aside.
These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor
This dilatory sloth, and tricks of Rome.

My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer!
Pr'ythee, return^{8 note}
: 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. The Palace at Bridewell. A Room in the Queen's Apartment. The Queen, and her Women, as at work.

Q. Kath.
Take thy lute, wench: my soul grows sad with troubles;
Sing, and disperse them, if thou canst. Leave working.
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.
Every thing 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.

Q. Kath.
How now!

Gent.
An't please your grace, the two great cardinals
Wait in the presence.

Q. Kath.
Would they speak with me?

Gent.
They will'd me say so, madam.

Q. Kath.
Pray their graces
To come near. [Exit Gent.] 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 Wolsey and Campeius.

Wol.
Peace to your highness.

Q. Kath.
Your graces find me here part of a housewife;
I would be all, against the worst may happen.
What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?

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

Q. Kath.
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 them,
Envy and base opinion set against them,
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.

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

Q. Kath.
O, good my lord, no Latin:
I am not such a truant since my coming,
As not to know the language I have liv'd 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 absolv'd in English.

Wol.
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^{9 note}.

Cam.
Most honour'd 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.

Q. Kath.
To betray me. [Aside.
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.

Wol.
Madam, you wrong the king's love with these fears:
Your hopes and friends are infinite.

Q. Kath.
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 must 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.

Cam.
I would, your grace
Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.

Q. Kath.
How, sir?

Cam.
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 you,
You'll part away disgrac'd.

Wol.
He tells you rightly.

Q. Kath.
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.

Cam.
Your rage mistakes us.

Q. Kath.
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 them for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort?
The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady?
A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd?
I will not wish ye half my miseries,
I have more charity; but say, I warn'd ye:
Take heed, for heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once
The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye.

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

Q. Kath.
Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye,
And all such false professors! Would ye have me
(If ye have any justice, any pity,
If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits)
Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?
Alas! he has banish'd 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.

Cam.
Your fears are worse.

Q. Kath.
Have I liv'd thus long—(let me speak myself,
Since virtue finds no friends,)—a wife, a true one?
A woman (I dare say without vain-glory)
Never yet branded with suspicion?
Have I with all my full affections
Still met the king? lov'd him next heaven? obey'd 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 dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure,
And to that woman, when she has done most,
Yet will I add an honour,—a great patience.

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

Q. Kath.
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.

Wol.
Pray, hear me.

Q. Kath.
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.—
Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes! [To her Women.
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity,
No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me,
Almost no grave allow'd me.—Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd,
I'll hang my head, and perish.

Wol.
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 them.
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, peace-makers, friends, and servants.

Cam.
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.

Q. Kath.
Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me,
If I have us'd 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. SCENE II. Ante-chamber to the King's Apartment. Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.

Nor.
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.

Sur.
I am joyful

To meet the least occasion, that may give me
Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke,
To be reveng'd on him.

Suf.
Which of the peers
Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least
Strangely neglected? when did he regard
The stamp of nobleness in any person,
Out of himself?

Cham.
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 the king, never attempt
Any thing on him, for he hath a witchcraft
Over the king in's tongue.

Nor.
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.

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

Nor.
Believe it, this is true.
In the divorce his contrary proceedings
Are all unfolded; wherein he appears,
As I could wish mine enemy.

Sur.
How came
His practices to light?

Suf.
Most strangely.

Sur.
O! how? how?

Suf.
The cardinal's letter to the pope miscarried,
And came to the eye o' the king; wherein was read,
How that the cardinal did entreat his holiness
To stay the judgment o' the 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.”

Sur.
Has the king this?

Suf.
Believe it.

Sur.
Will this work?

Cham.
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.

Sur.
Would he had!

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

Sur.
Now all my joy
Trace the conjunction! 11Q0811

Suf.
My amen to't.

Nor.
All men's.

Suf.
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 memoriz'd.

Sur.
But, will the king
Digest this letter of the cardinal's?
The Lord forbid!

Nor.
Marry, amen!

Suf.
No, no:
There be more wasps that buz 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' the 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.

Cham.
Now, God incense him,
And let him cry ha! louder.

Nor.
But, my lord,
When returns Cranmer?

Suf.
He is return'd, 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 publish'd, and
Her coronation. Katharine no more
Shall be call'd queen, but princess dowager,
And widow to prince Arthur.

Nor.
This same Cranmer's
A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain
In the king's business.

Suf.
He has; and we shall see him
For it an archbishop.

Nor.
So I hear.

Suf.
'Tis so.
The cardinal— Enter Wolsey and Cromwell.

Nor.
Observe, observe; he's moody.

Wol.
The packet, Cromwell, gave it you the king?

Crom.
To his own hand, in his bedchamber.

Wol.
Look'd he o' th' inside of the paper?

Crom.
Presently
He did unseal them, and the first he view'd,
He did it with a serious mind; a heed
Was in his countenance: you he bade
Attend him here this morning.

Wol.
Is he ready
To come abroad?

Crom.
I think, by this he is.

Wol.
Leave me awhile.— [Exit Cromwell.
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!

Nor.
He's discontented.

Suf.
May be, he hears the king
Does whet his anger to him.

Sur.
Sharp enough,
Lord! for thy justice.

Wol.
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' the bosom of
Our hard-rul'd king. Again, there is sprung up
An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one
Hath crawl'd into the favour of the king,
And is his oracle.

Nor.
He is vex'd at something.

Suf.
I would, 'twere something that would fret the string,
The master-cord on's heart! Enter the King, reading a Schedule; and Lovell.

Suf.
The king, the king.

K. Hen.
What piles of wealth hath he accumulated,
To his own portion! and what expence by the hour
Seems to flow from him! How, i' the name of thrift,
Does he rake this together?—Now, my lords;
Saw you the cardinal?

Nor.
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.

K. Hen.
It may well be:
There is a mutiny in's mind. This morning
Papers of state he sent me to peruse,
As I requir'd; 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 out-speaks
Possession of a subject.

Nor.
It's heaven's will:
Some spirit put this paper in the packet,
To bless your eye withal.

K. Hen.
If we did think
His contemplation were above the earth,
And fix'd 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. [He takes his seat, and whispers Lovell, who goes to Wolsey.

Wol.
Heaven forgive me!
Ever God bless your highness.

K. Hen.
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. 11Q0812 Sure, in that
I deem you an ill husband, and am glad
To have you therein my companion.

Wol.
Sir,
For holy offices I have a time; a time
To think upon the part of business, which
I bear i' the state; and nature does require

Her times of preservation, which, perforce,
I her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,
Must give my tendance to.

K. Hen.
You have said well.

Wol.
And ever may your highness yoke together,
As I will lend you cause, my doing well
With my well saying!

K. Hen.
'Tis well said again;
And 'tis a kind of good deed, to say well:
And yet words are no deeds. My father lov'd 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
Employ'd you where high profits might come home,
But par'd my present havings, to bestow
My bounties upon you.

Wol.
What should this mean?

Sur.
The Lord increase this business! [Aside.

K. Hen.
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?

Wol.
My sovereign, I confess, your royal graces,
Shower'd 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 fill'd with my abilities. Mine own ends
Have been mine so, that evermore they pointed
To the good of your most sacred person, and
The profit of the state. For your great graces
Heap'd 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.

K. Hen.
Fairly answer'd:
A loyal and obedient subject is
Therein illustrated. The honour of it
Does pay the act of it; as, i' the contrary,
The foulness is the punishment. I presume,
That as my hand has open'd bounty to you,
My heart dropp'd love, my power rain'd 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.

Wol.
I do profess,
That for your highness' good I ever labour'd
More than mine own: that am, have, and will be^{1 note}—
(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 them, 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.

K. Hen.
'Tis nobly spoken.
Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,
For you have seen him open't.—Read o'er this: [Giving him Papers.
And, after, this; and then to breakfast, with
What appetite you have. [Exit King, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey: the Nobles throng after him, smiling, and whispering.

Wol.
What should this mean?
What sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it?
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap'd from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd 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 the Pope?”
The letter, as I live, with all the business
I writ to his holiness. Nay then, farewell!
I have touch'd 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. Re-enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.

Nor.
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^{2 note}, my lord of Winchester's,

Till you hear farther from his highness.

Wol.
Stay:
Where's your commission, lords? words cannot carry
Authority so weighty.

Suf.
Who dare cross them,
Bearing the king's will from his mouth expressly?

Wol.
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 every thing may bring my ruin!
Follow your envious courses, men of malice;
You have Christian warrant for them, 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 patent. Now, who'll take it?

Sur.
The king that gave it.

Wol.
It must be himself, then.

Sur.
Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

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

Sur.
Thy ambition,
Thou scarlet sin, robb'd 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)
Weigh'd 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,

Absolv'd him with an axe.

Wol.
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 lov'd 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.

Sur.
By my soul,
Your long coat, priest, protects you: thou should'st feel
My sword i' the life-blood 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^{3 note}.

Wol.
All goodness
Is poison to thy stomach.

Sur.
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 despis'd 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^{4 note}, when the brown wench
Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal.

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

Nor.
Those articles, my lord, are in the king's hand;
But, thus much, they are foul ones.

Wol.
So much fairer,
And spotless, shall mine innocence arise,
When the king knows my truth.

Sur.
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.

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

Sur.
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 maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops.

Nor.
Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else
To foreign princes, Ego et Rex meus
Was still inscrib'd; in which you brought the king
To be your servant.

Suf.
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.

Sur.
Item, you sent a large commission
To Gregory de Cassalis, to conclude,
Without the king's will or the state's allowance,
A league between his highness and Ferrara.

Suf.
That out of mere ambition you have caus'd
Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the king's coin.

Sur.
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.

Cham.
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.

Sur.
I forgive him.

Suf.
Lord cardinal, the king's farther pleasure is,—
Because all those things, you have done of late
By your power legatine within this kingdom,
Fall into the compass of a præmunire,—
That therefore such a writ be sued against you;
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,
Chattels, and whatsoever^{5 note}, and to be
Out of the king's protection.—This is my charge.

Nor.
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.

Wol.
So, farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow 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 ventur'd,
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 open'd. 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, amazedly^{6 note}.
Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom.
I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.
What! amaz'd
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder,
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom.
How does your grace?

Wol.
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 cur'd me,
I humbly thank his grace, and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd 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.

Crom.
I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Wol.
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?

Crom.
The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol.
God bless him!

Crom.
The next is, that sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol.
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 'em^{7 note}!
What more?

Crom.
That Cranmer is returned with welcome,
Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol.
That's news indeed!

Crom.
Last, that the lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open, as his queen,

Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.

Wol.
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^{8 note}, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom.
O my lord!
Must I then leave you? must I needs forego
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.

Wol.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd 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 miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd 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't?
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,—Pr'ythee, 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 serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Crom.
Good sir, have patience.

Wol.
So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court: my hopes in heaven do dwell. [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. 11Q0813 A Street in Westminster. Enter Two Gentlemen, meeting.

1 Gent.
You're well met once again.

2 Gent.
So are you.

1 Gent.
You come to take your stand here, and behold

The lady Anne pass from her coronation?

2 Gent.
'Tis all my business. At our last encounter,
The duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

1 Gent.
'Tis very true; but that time offer'd sorrow,
This, general joy.

2 Gent.
'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.

1 Gent.
Never greater;
Nor, I'll assure you, better taken, sir.

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

1 Gent.
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.

2 Gent.
I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs,
I should have been beholding^{9 note} to your paper.
But, I beseech you, what's become of Katharine,
The princess dowager? how goes her business?

1 Gent.
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 appear'd 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 divorc'd,
And the late marriage made of none effect:
Since which she was removed to Kimbolton,
Where she remains now, sick.

2 Gent.
Alas, good lady!— [Trumpets.
The trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming. [Hautboys.