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 call’d Whitehall.
Third Gentleman
I know it;
But ’tis so lately alter’d, 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
Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,
Newly preferr’d 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 the king, and truly
A worthy friend. The king has made him master
O’ the 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 the court, and there ye shall be my guests:
Something I can command. As I walk thither,
I’ll tell ye more.
Both
You may command us, sir.
Exeunt
SCENE II. KIMBOLTON.
Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick; led between Griffith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman
Griffith
How does your grace?
Katharine
O Griffith, sick to death!
My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,
Willing to leave their burthen. Reach a chair:
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 suffer’d, gave no ear to’t.
Katharine
Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:
If well, he stepp’d 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.
Katharine
Alas, poor man!
Griffith
At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,
With all his covent, 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.
Katharine
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’ the 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 in 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?
Katharine
Yes, good Griffith;
I were malicious else.
Griffith
This cardinal,
Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashion’d 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 unfinish’d, yet so famous,
So excellent in art, and still so rising,
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
His overthrow heap’d 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.
Katharine
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!
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
Griffith
She is asleep: good wench, let’s sit down quiet,
For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience.
The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, 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
Katharine
Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone,
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?
Griffith
Madam, we are here.
Katharine
It is not you I call for:
Saw ye none enter since I slept?
Griffith
None, madam.
Katharine
No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed 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.
Katharine
Bid the music leave,
They are harsh and heavy to me.
Music ceases
Patience
Do you note
How much her grace is alter’d on the sudden?
How long her face is drawn? how pale she looks,
And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!
Griffith
She is going, wench: pray, pray.
Patience
Heaven comfort her!
Enter a Messenger
Messenger
An’t like your grace,—
Katharine
You are a saucy fellow:
Deserve we no more reverence?
Griffith
You are to blame,
Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,
To use so rude behavior; go to, kneel.
Messenger
I humbly do entreat your highness’ pardon;
My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying
A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.
Katharine
Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow
Let me ne’er see again.
Exeunt Griffith and Messenger
Re-enter Griffith, with Capucius
If my sight fail not,
You should be lord ambassador from the emperor,
My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.
Capucius
Madam, the same; your servant.
Katharine
O, my lord,
The times and titles now are alter’d strangely
With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,
What is your pleasure with me?
Capucius
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.
Katharine
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 an comforts here, but prayers.
How does his highness?
Capucius
Madam, in good health.
Katharine
So may he ever do! and ever flourish,
When I shal l dwell with worms, and my poor name
Banish’d the kingdom! Patience, is that letter,
I caused you write, yet sent away?
Patience
No, madam.
Giving it to Katharine
Katharine
Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver
This to my lord the king.
Capucius
Most willing, madam.
Katharine
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 follow’d 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 right.
Capucius
By heaven, I will,
Or let me lose the fashion of a man!
Katharine
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 bless’d him,
For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,
My lord. Griffith, farewell. 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 unqueen’d, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more.
Exeunt, leading Katharine
ACT V
SCENE I. LONDON. A GALLERY IN THE PALACE.
Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Lovell
Gardiner
It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not?
Boy
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. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!
Whither so late?
Lovell
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 fear’d
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 grubb’d 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,
’Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take’t of me,
Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,
Sleep in their graves.
Lovell
Now, sir, you speak of two
The most remark’d i’ the kingdom. As for Cromwell,
Beside that of the jewel house, is made master
O’ the rolls, and the king’s secretary; further, sir,
Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,
With which the time will load him. The archbishop
Is the king’s hand and tongue; and who dare speak
One syllable against him?
Gardiner
Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,
There are that dare; and I myself have ventured
To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,
Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have
Incensed the lords o’ the council, that he is,
For so I know he is, they know he is,
A most arch heretic, a pestilence
That does infect the land: with which they moved
Have broken with the king; who hath so far
Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace
And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs
Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded
To-morrow morning to the council-board
He be convented. He’s a rank weed, Sir Thomas,
And we must root him out. From your affairs
I hinder you too long: good night, Sir Thomas.
Lovell
Many good nights, my lord: I rest your servant.
Exeunt Gardiner and Page
Enter King Henry VIII and Suffolk
King Henry VIII
Charles, I will play no more tonight;
My mind’s not on’t; you are too hard for me.
Suffolk
Sir, I did never win of you before.
King Henry VIII
But little, Charles;
Nor shall not, when my fancy’s on my play.
Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?
Lovell
I could not personally deliver to her
What you commanded me, but by her woman
I sent your message; who return’d her thanks
In the great’st humbleness, and desired your highness
Most heartily to pray for her.
King Henry VIII
What say’st thou, ha?
To pray for her? what, is she crying out?
Lovell
So said her woman; and that her sufferance made
Almost each pang a death.
King Henry VIII
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