The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  Good sir, speak it to us.

  THIRD GENTLEMAN

  As well as I am able. The rich stream

  Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen

  To a prepared place in the choir, fell off

  A distance from her, while her grace sat down

  To rest a while—some half an hour or so—

  In a rich chair of state, opposing freely

  The beauty of her person to the people.

  Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman

  That ever lay by man; which when the people

  Had the full view of, such a noise arose

  As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,

  As loud and to as many tunes. Hats, cloaks—

  Doublets, I think—flew up, and had their faces

  Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy

  I never saw before. Great-bellied women,

  That had not half a week to go, like rams

  In the old time of war, would shake the press,

  And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living

  Could say ‘This is my wife’ there, all were woven

  So strangely in one piece.

  SECOND GENTLEMAN

  But what followed?

  THIRD GENTLEMAN

  At length her grace rose, and with modest paces

  Came to the altar, where she kneeled, and saint-like

  Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and prayed devoutly, 86

  Then rose again, and bowed her to the people,

  When by the Archbishop of Canterbury

  She had all the royal makings of a queen,

  As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown,

  The rod and bird of peace, and all such emblems

  Laid nobly on her. Which performed, the choir,

  With all the choicest music of the kingdom,

  Together sung Te Deum. So she parted,

  And with the same full state paced back again

  To York Place, where the feast is held.

  FIRST GENTLEMAN

  Sir, You must no more call it York Place—that’s past,

  For since the Cardinal fell, that title’s lost.

  ‘Tis now the King’s, and called Whitehall.

  THIRD GENTLEMAN

  I know it, But ’tis so lately altered that the old name

  Is fresh about me.

  SECOND GENTLEMAN What two reverend bishops

  Were those that went on each side of the Queen?

  THIRD GENTLEMAN

  Stokesley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester—

  Newly preferred from the King’s secretary—

  The other London.

  SECOND GENTLEMAN

  He of Winchester

  Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop’s,

  The virtuous Cranmer.

  THIRD GENTLEMAN

  All the land knows that.

  However, yet there is no great breach. When it

  comes,

  Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

  SECOND GENTLEMAN

  Who may that be, I pray you?

  THIRD GENTLEMAN

  Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteem with th’ King, and truly

  A worthy friend. The King has made him

  Master o’th’ Jewel House,

  And one already of the Privy Council.

  SECOND GENTLEMAN

  He will deserve more.

  THIRD GENTLEMAN

  Yes, without all doubt.

  Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way,

  Which is to th’ court, and there ye shall be my

  guests.

  Something I can command. As I walk thither

  I’ll tell ye more.

  FIRST and SECOND GENTLEMEN You may command us, sir.

  Exeunt

  4.2 ⌈Three chairs.⌉ Enter Katherine Dowager, sick, led between Griffith her gentleman usher, and Patience her woman

  GRIFFITH

  How does your grace?

  KATHERINE

  O Griffith, sick to death.

  My legs, like loaden branches, bow to th’ earth,

  Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.

  A chair is brought to her. She sits

  So now, methinks, I feel a little ease.

  Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led’st me,

  That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,

  Was dead?

  GRIFFITH

  Yes, madam, but I think your grace, Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to’t.

  KATHERINE

  Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died.

  If well, he stepped before me happily

  For my example.

  GRIFFITH

  Well, the voice goes, madam.

  For after the stout Earl Northumberland

  Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,

  As a man sorely tainted, to his answer,

  He fell sick, suddenly, and grew so ill

  He could not sit his mule.

  KATHERINE

  Alas, poor man.

  GRIFFITH

  At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,

  Lodged in the abbey, where the reverend abbot,

  With all his convent, honourably received him,

  To whom he gave these words: 'O father abbot,

  An old man broken with the storms of state

  Is come to lay his weary bones among ye.

  Give him a little earth, for charity.’

  So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness

  Pursued him still, and three nights after this,

  About the hour of eight, which he himself

  Foretold should be his last, full of repentance,

  Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,

  He gave his honours to the world again,

  His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

  KATHERINE

  So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him.

  Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,

  And yet with charity. He was a man

  Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking

  Himself with princes; one that by suggestion

  Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair play.

  His own opinion was his law. I’th’ presence

  He would say untruths, and be ever double

  Both in his words and meaning. He was never,

  But where he meant to ruin, pitiful.

  His promises were, as he then was, mighty;

  But his performance, as he is now, nothing.

  Of his own body he was ill, and gave

  The clergy ill example.

  GRIFFITH

  Noble madam, Men’s evil manners live in brass, their virtues

  We write in water. May it please your highness

  To hear me speak his good now?

  KATHERINE

  Yes, good Griffith,

  I were malicious else.

  GRIFFITH

  This cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly

  Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle

  He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one,

  Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;

  Lofty and sour to them that loved him not,

  But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.

  And though he were unsatisfied in getting—

  Which was a sin—yet in bestowing, madam,

  He was most princely: ever witness for him

  Those twins of learning that he raised in you,

  Ipswich and Oxford—one of which fell with him,

  Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;

  The other, though unfinished, yet so famous,

  So excellent in art, and still so rising,

  That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.

  His overthrow heaped happiness upon him,

  For then, and not till then,
he felt himself,

  And found the blessedness of being little.

  And to add greater honours to his age

  Than man could give him, he died fearing God.

  KATHERINE

  After my death I wish no other herald,

  No other speaker of my living actions

  To keep mine honour from corruption

  But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.

  Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,

  With thy religious truth and modesty,

  Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him.

  (To her woman) Patience, be near me still, and set me

  lower.

  I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,

  Cause the musicians play me that sad note

  I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating

  On that celestial harmony I go to.

  Sad and solemn music. Katherine sleeps

  GRIFFITH (to the woman)

  She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit down quiet

  For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience.

  They sit

  THE VISION

  Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six personages clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden visors on their faces. They carry branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first conge unto Katherine, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes and holding the garland over her head. Which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two who likewise observe the same order. At which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues

  KATHERINE (waking)

  Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone,

  And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

  Griffith and Patience rise and come forward

  GRIFFITH

  Madam, we are here.

  KATHERINE It is not you I call for.

  Saw ye none enter since I slept?

  GRIFFITH

  None, madam.

  KATHERINE

  No? Saw you not even now a blessèd troop

  Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces

  Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?

  They promised me eternal happiness,

  And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel

  I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall,

  Assuredly.

  GRIFFITH

  I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams

  Possess your fancy.

  KATHERINE

  Bid the music leave.

  They are harsh and heavy to me.

  Music ceases

  PATIENCE (to Griffith)

  Do you note

  How much her grace is altered on the sudden?

  How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks,

  And of an earthy colour? Mark her eyes?

  GRIFFITH

  She is going, wench. Pray, pray.

  PATIENCE

  Heaven comfort her.

  Enter a Messenger

  MESSENGER (to Katherine)

  An’t like your grace—

  KATHERINE

  You are a saucy fellow—

  Deserve we no more reverence?

  GRIFFITH (to the Messenger)

  You are to blame,

  Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,

  To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel.

  MESSENGER (kneeling before Katherine)

  I humbly do entreat your highness’ pardon.

  My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying

  A gentleman sent from the King to see you.

  KATHERINE

  Admit him entrance, Griffith. But this fellow

  Let me ne’er see again.

  Exit Messenger

  Enter Lord Caputius ⌈ushered by Griffith⌉

  If my sight fail not,

  You should be lord ambassador from the Emperor,

  My royal nephew, and your name Caputius.

  CAPUTIUS

  Madam, the same, ⌈bowing⌉ your servant.

  KATHERINE

  O, my lord, The times and titles now are altered strangely

  With me since first you knew me. But I pray you,

  What is your pleasure with me?

  CAPUTIUS

  Noble lady, First mine own service to your grace; the next,

  The King’s request that I would visit you,

  Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me

  Sends you his princely commendations,

  And heartily entreats you take good comfort.

  KATHERINE

  O, my good lord, that comfort comes too late,

  ’Tis like a pardon after execution.

  That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me;

  But now I am past all comforts here but prayers.

  How does his highness?

  CAPUTIUS

  Madam, in good health.

  KATHERINE

  So may he ever do, and ever flourish

  When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name

  Banished the kingdom. (To her woman) Patience, is

  that letter

  I caused you write yet sent away?

  PATIENCE

  No, madam.

  KATHERINE (to Caputius)

  Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver

  This to my lord the King.

  The letter is given to Caputius

  CAPUTIUS

  Most willing, madam.

  KATHERINE

  In which I have commended to his goodness

  The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter—

  The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her—

  Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding.

  She is young, and of a noble modest nature.

  I hope she will deserve well—and a little

  To love her for her mother’s sake, that loved him,

  Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition

  Is that his noble grace would have some pity

  Upon my wretched women, that so long

  Have followed both my fortunes faithfully;

  Of which there is not one, I dare avow—

  And now I should not lie—but will deserve,

  For virtue and true beauty of the soul,

  For honesty and decent carriage,

  A right good husband. Let him be a noble,

  And sure those men are happy that shall have ’em.

  The last is for my men—they are the poorest,

  But poverty could never draw ’em from me—

  That they may have their wages duly paid ’em,

  And something over to remember me by.

  If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life,

  And able means, we had not parted thus.

  These are the whole contents; and, good my lord,

  By that you love the dearest in this world,

  As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,

  Stand these poor people’s friend and urge the King

  To do me this last rite.

  CAPUTIUS

  By heaven I will,

  Or let me lose the fashion of a man.

  KATHERINE

  I thank you, honest lord. Remember me

  In all humility unto his highness.

  Say his long trouble now is passing

  Out of this world. Tell him, in death I blessed him,

  For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,

  My lord. Griffith, farewell.

  (To her woman)

  Nay, Patience,

  You must not leave me yet. I must to bed.

  Call in more women.
When I am dead, good wench,

  Let me be used with honour. Strew me over

  With maiden flowers, that all the world may know

  I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me,

  Then lay me forth. Although unqueened, yet like

  A queen and daughter to a king inter me.

  I can no more.

  Exeunt ⌈Caputius and Griffith⌉ at one door;

  Patience⌉ leading Katherine ⌈at another⌉

  5.1 Enter ⌈at one door⌉ Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; before him, a Page with a torch

  GARDINER

  It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not?

  PAGE

  It hath struck.

  GARDINER

  These should be hours for necessities,

  Not for delights; times to repair our nature

  With comforting repose, and not for us

  To waste these times.

  Enter ⌈at another door⌉ Sir Thomas Lovell, meeting them

  Good hour of night, Sir Thomasl

  Whither so late?

  LOVELY

  Came you from the King, my lord?

  GARDINER

  I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at primero

  With the Duke of Suffolk.

  LOVELL

  I must to him too,

  Before he go to bed. I’ll take my leave.

  GARDINER

  Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell—what’s the matter?

  It seems you are in haste. An if there be

  No great offence belongs to’t, give your friend

  Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk,

  As they say spirits do, at midnight, have

  In them a wilder nature than the business

  That seeks dispatch by day.

  LOVELL

  My lord, I love you,

  And durst commend a secret to your ear

  Much weightier than this work. The Queen’s in labour—

  They say in great extremity—and feared

  She’ll with the labour end.

  GARDINER

  The fruit she goes with

  I pray for heartily, that it may find

  Good time, and live. But, for the stock, Sir Thomas,

  I wish it grubbed up now.

  LOVELL

  Methinks I could

  Cry the amen, and yet my conscience says

  She’s a good creature and, sweet lady, does

  Deserve our better wishes.

  GARDINER

  But sir, sir,

  Hear me, Sir Thomas. You’re a gentleman

  Of mine own way. I know you wise, religious.

  And let me tell you, it will ne’er be well—