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• The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth: Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Prologue.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: London. an Antechamber In the Palace.
• Scene II.—: The Council Chamber.
• Scene III.—: A Room In the Palace.
• Scene IV.—: The Presence-chamber In York-place.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Westminster. a Street.
• Scene II.—: An Antechamber In the Palace.
• Scene III.—: An Antechamber In Thequeen’sapartments.
• Scene IV.—: A Hall In Black-friars.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: The Palace At Bridewell. a Room In Thequeen’sapartment.
• Scene II.—: Antechamber to Theking’sapartment.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: A Street In Westminster.
• Scene II.—: Kimbolton.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: London. a Gallery In the Palace.
• Scene II.—: The Lobby Before the Council-chamber.
• Scene III.—: The Council-chamber.
• Scene IV.—: The Palace-yard.
• Scene V.—: The Palace.
• Epilogue.

ACT II.

Scene I.—

Westminster. A Street.

Enter two Gentlemen, meeting.

First Gent.

Whither away so fast?

Sec. Gent.

O! God save ye.

E’en to the hall, to hear what shall become

Of the great Duke of Buckingham.

First Gent.

I’ll save you

That labour, sir. All’s now done but the ceremony

Of bringing back the prisoner.

Sec. Gent.

Were you there?

First Gent.

Yes, indeed, was I.

Sec. Gent.

Pray speak what has happen’d.

First Gent.

You may guess quickly what.

Sec. Gent.

Is he found guilty?

First Gent.

Yes, truly is he, and condemn’d upon’t.

Sec. Gent.

I am sorry for ’t.

First Gent.

So are a number more.

Sec. Gent.

But, pray, how pass’d it?

First 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, vivâ voce, to his face:

At which appear’d against him his surveyor;

Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car,

Confessor to him; with that devil-monk,

Hopkins, that made this mischief.

Sec. Gent.

That was he

That fed him with his prophecies?

First 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.

Sec. Gent.

After all this how did he bear himself?

First 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.

Sec. Gent.

I do not think he fears death.

First Gent.

Sure, he does not;

He never was so womanish; the cause

He may a little grieve at.

Sec. Gent.

Certainly

The cardinal is the end of this.

First 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.

Sec. Gent.

That trick of state

Was a deep envious one.

First 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.

Sec. 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;—

First Gent.

Stay there, sir,

And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of.

EnterBuckinghamfrom his arraignment; Tipstaves before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds on each side: with himSir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir William Sands,and common people.

Sec. Gent.

Let’s stand close, and behold him.

Buck.

All good people,

You that thus far have come to pity me,

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.

I have this day 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,

’T has done upon the premises but justice;

But those that sought it I could wish more Christians:

Be what they will, I heartily forgive ’em.

Yet let ’em look they glory not in mischief,

Nor build their evils on the graves of great men;

For then my guiltless blood must cry against ’em.

For further life in this world I ne’er hope,

Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies

More than I dare make faults. You few that 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 cannot take peace with: no black envy

Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace;

And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him

You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers

Yet are the king’s; and, till my soul forsake,

Shall cry for blessings on him: may he live

Longer than I have time to tell his years!

Ever 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 welov’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; 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!

[ExeuntBuckinghamand Train.

First Gent.

O! this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,

I fear, too many curses on their heads

That were the authors.

Sec. 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.

First Gent.

Good angels keep it from us!

What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

Sec. Gent.

This secret is so weighty, ’twill require

A strong faith to conceal it.

First Gent.

Let me have it;

I do not talk much.

Sec. Gent.

I am confident:

You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear

A buzzing of a separation

Between the king and Katharine?

First 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.

Sec. 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.

First Gent.

’Tis the cardinal;

And merely to revenge him on the emperor

For not bestowing on him, at his asking,

The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purpos’d.

Sec. 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.

First Gent.

’Tis woeful.

We are too open here to argue this;

Let’s think in private more.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—

An Antechamber in the Palace.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a letter.

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.

I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them:

He will have all, I think.

Enter theDukes of NorfolkandSuffolk.

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 ’em,

And every true heart weeps for’t. All that dare

Look into these affairs, see this main end,

The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open

The king’s eyes, that so long have slept upon

This bold bad man.

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

Like 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 otherwhere: besides,

You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him:

Health to your lordships.

Nor.

Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Norfolkopens a folding-door. TheKingis discovered sitting and reading pensively.

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?

EnterWolseyandCampeius.

Who’s there? my good Lord Cardinal? O! my Wolsey,

The quiet of my wounded conscience;

Thou art a cure fit for a king. [ToCampeius.] You’re welcome,

Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom:

Use us, and it. [ToWolsey.] My good lord, have great care

I be not found a talker.

Wol.

Sir, you cannot.

I would your Grace would give us but an hour

Of private conference.

K. Hen.

[ToNorfolkandSuffolk.] We are busy: go.

Nor.

[Aside toSuffolk.] This priest has no pride in him!

Suf.

[Aside toNorfolk.] Not to speak of;

I would not be so sick though for his place:

But this cannot continue.

Nor.

[Aside toSuffolk.] If it do,

I’ll venture one have-at-him.

Suf.

[Aside toNorfolk.] I another.

[ExeuntNorfolkandSuffolk.

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: 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 my 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 impartial 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,

Prithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary:

I find him a fit fellow.

[ExitWolsey.

Re-enterWolsey,withGardiner.

Wol.

[Aside toGardiner.] Give me your hand; much joy and favour to you;

You are the king’s now.

Gard.

[Aside toWolsey.] But to be commanded

For ever by your Grace, whose hand has rais’d me.

K. Hen.

Come hither, Gardiner.

[They converse apart.

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.

[ExitGardiner.

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 Antechamber in theQueen’sApartments.

EnterAnne Bullenand 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 to acquire, after this process

To give her the avaunt! it is a pity

Would move a monster.

Old Lady.

Hearts of most hard temper

Melt and lament for her.

Anne.

O! God’s will; much better

She ne’er had known pomp: though ’t be temporal,

Yet, if that quarrel, Fortune, do divorce

It from the bearer, ’tis a sufferance panging

As soul and body’s severing.

Old Lady.

Alas! poor lady,

She’s a stranger now again.

Anne.

So much the more

Must pity drop upon her. Verily,

I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born,

And range with humble livers in content,

Than to be perk’d up in a glist’ring grief

And wear a golden sorrow.

Old Lady.

Our content

Is our best having.

Anne.

By my troth and maidenhead

I would not be a queen.

Old Lady.

Beshrew me, I would,

And venture maidenhead for’t; and so would you,

For all this spice of your hypocrisy.

You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,

Have too a woman’s heart; which ever yet

Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty:

Which, to say sooth, are blessings, and which gifts—

Saving your mincing—the capacity

Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive,

If you might please to stretch it.

Anne.

Nay, good troth.

Old Lady.

Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be a queen?

Anne.

No, not for all the riches under heaven.

Old Lady.

’Tis strange: a three-pence bow’d would hire me,

Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you,

What think you of a duchess? have you limbs

To bear that load of title?

Anne.

No, in truth.

Old Lady.

Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little:

I would not be a young count in your way,

For more than blushing comes to: if your back

Cannot vouchsafe this burden, ’tis too weak

Ever to get a boy.

Anne.

How you do talk!

I swear again, I would not be a queen

For all the world.

Old Lady.

In faith, for little England

You’d venture an emballing: I myself

Would for 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 note’s

Ta’en of your many virtues, the king’s majesty

Commends his good opinion of you, and

Does purpose honour to you no less flowing

Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title

A thousand pound a year, annual support,

Out of his grace he adds.

Anne.

I do not know

What kind of my obedience I should tender;

More than my all is nothing, nor my prayers

Are not words duly 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 to approve the fair conceit

The king hath of you. [Aside.] I have perus’d her well;

Beauty and honour in her are so mingled

That they have caught the king; and who knows yet

But from this lady may proceed a gem

To lighten all this isle? [To her.] I’ll to the king,

And say, I spoke with you.

Anne.

My honour’d lord.

[ExitLord Chamberlain.

Old Lady.

Why, this it is; see, see!

I have been begging sixteen years in court,

Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could

Come pat betwixt too early and too late;

For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!

A very fresh-fish here,—fie, fie, upon

This compell’d fortune!—have your mouth fill’d up

Before you open it.

Anne.

This is strange to me.

Old Lady.

How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no.

There was a lady once,—’tis an old story,—

That would not be a queen, that would she not,

For all the mud in Egypt: have you heard it?

Anne.

Come, you are pleasant.

Old Lady.

With your theme I could

O’ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

A thousand pounds a year, for pure respect!

No other obligation! By my life

That promises more thousands: honour’s train

Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time

I know your back will bear a duchess: say,

Are you not stronger than you were?

Anne.

Good lady,

Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,

And leave me out on’t. Would I had no being,

If this salute my blood a jot: it faints me,

To think what follows.

The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful

In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver

What here you’ve heard to her.

Old Lady.

What do you think me?

[Exeunt.

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, theArchbishop of Canterbury,alone; after him, theBishops of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester,andSaint Asaph;next them, at 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 twoCardinals;two Noblemen with the sword and mace. Then enter theKingandQueen,and their Trains. TheKingtakes place under the cloth of state; the twoCardinalssit under him as judges. TheQueentakes place at some distance from theKing.TheBishopsplace themselves on each side the court, in manner of a consistory; below them, the Scribes. The Lords sit next theBishops.The Crier and the rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the Stage.

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 the 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, come into the court.

K. Hen.

Here.

Scribe.

Say, Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

Crier.

Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

[TheQueenmakes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to theKing,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. 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 produc’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 the effects

Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom

O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do me wrong:

I have no spleen against you; nor injustice

For you or any: how far I have proceeded,

Or how far further shall, is warranted

By a commission from the consistory,

Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me

That I have blown this coal: I do deny it.

The king is present: if it be known to him

That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,

And worthily, my falsehood; yea, as much

As you have done my truth. If he know

That I am free of your report, he knows

I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him

It lies to cure me; and the cure is, to

Remove these thoughts from you: the which before

His highness shall speak in, I do beseech

You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking,

And to say so no more.

Q. Kath.

My lord, my lord,

I am a simple woman, much too weak

To oppose your cunning. You’re meek and humble-mouth’d;

You sign your place and calling, 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 theKing,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.

Grif.

Madam, you are call’d back.

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.

[ExeuntQueen,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. You’re 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 the inducement. Thus it came; give heed to’t:

My conscience first receiv’d 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 ’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, 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, 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 rev’rend 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 that I had to doubt;

And did entreat your highness to this course

Which you are running here.

K. Hen.

Then I 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 further day:

Mean while must be an earnest motion

Made to the queen, to call back her appeal

She intends unto his holiness.

[They rise to depart.

K. Hen.

[Aside.] I may perceive

These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor

This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.

My learn’d and well-beloved servant Cranmer,

Prithee, return: with thy approach, I know,

My comfort comes along. Break up the court:

I say, set on.

[Exeunt, in manner as they entered.