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.

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