I find him a fit fellow.
Exit Cardinal Wolsey
Re-enter Cardinal Wolsey, with Gardiner
Cardinal Wolsey
[Aside to Gardiner] Give me your hand much joy and favour to you;
You are the king’s now.
Gardiner
[Aside to Cardinal Wolsey]
But to be commanded
For ever by your grace, whose hand has raised me.
King Henry VIII
Come hither, Gardiner.
Walks and whispers
Cardinal Campeius
My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace
In this man’s place before him?
Cardinal Wolsey
Yes, he was.
Cardinal Campeius
Was he not held a learned man?
Cardinal Wolsey
Yes, surely.
Cardinal Campeius
Believe me, there’s an ill opinion spread then
Even of yourself, lord cardinal.
Cardinal Wolsey
How! of me?
Cardinal Campeius
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 grieved him,
That he ran mad and died.
Cardinal Wolsey
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.
King Henry VIII
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 OF THE QUEEN’S APARTMENTS.
Enter Anne and an Old Lady
Anne
Not for that neither: here’s the pang that pinches:
His highness having lived 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 enthroned,
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 glistering 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 burthen,’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’ld venture an emballing: I myself
Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long’d
No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?
Enter Chamberlain
Chamberlain
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.
Chamberlain
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!
Chamberlain
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.
Chamberlain
Lady,
I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit
The king hath of you.
Aside
I have perused 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? I’ll to the king,
And say I spoke with you.
Exit Chamberlain
Anne
My honour’d lord.
Old Lady
Why, this it is; see, see!
I have been begging sixteen years in court,
Am yet a cou
rtier 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 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 moe 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, Canterbury alone; after him, 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, Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. King Henry VIII takes place under the cloth of state; Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius sit under him as judges. Queen Katharine takes place some distance from King Henry VIII. 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
Cardinal Wolsey
Whilst our commission from Rome is read,
Let silence be commanded.
King Henry VIII
What’s the need?
It hath already publicly been read,
And on all sides the authority allow’d;
You may, then, spare that time.
Cardinal Wolsey
Be’t so. Proceed.
Scribe
Say, Henry King of England, come into the court.
Crier
Henry King of England, & c.
King Henry VIII
Here.
Scribe
Say, Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.
Crier
Katharine Queen of England, & c.
Queen Katharine makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to King Henry VIII, and kneels at his feet; then speaks
Queen Katharine
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 behavior 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 inclined: 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 derived your anger, did I
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice
He was from thence discharged. 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 advised; whose counsel
I will implore: if not, i’ the name of God,
Your pleasure be fulfill’d!
Cardinal Wolsey
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.
Cardinal Campeius
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 produced and heard.
Queen Katharine
Lord cardinal,
To you I speak.
Cardinal Wolsey
Your pleasure, madam?
Queen Katharine
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.
Cardinal Wolsey
Be patient yet.
Queen Katharine
I will, when you are humble; nay, before,
Or God will punish me. I do believe,
Induced 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.
Cardinal Wolsey
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.
Queen Katharine
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 judged by him.
She curtsies to King Henry VIII, and offers to depart
Cardinal Campeius
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.
King Henry VIII
Call her again.
Crier
Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.
Griffith
Madam, you are call’d back.
Queen Katharine
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 Katharine and her Attendants
King Henry VIII
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,
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