Henry VIII

loved 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. King

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. Exit Wolsey.

Re-enter Wolsey, with Gardiner. Wolsey

Aside to Gardiner. Give me your hand: much joy and favour to you;
You are the king’s now.

Gardiner

Aside to Wolsey. But to be commanded
For ever by your grace, whose hand has raised me.

King Come hither, Gardiner. Walks and whispers. Campeius

My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace
In this man’s place before him?

Wolsey Yes, he was. Campeius Was he not held a learned man? Wolsey Yes, surely. Campeius

Believe me, there’s an ill opinion spread then
Even of yourself, lord cardinal.

Wolsey How! of me? 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.

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

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 Bullen 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’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.
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 Lord 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 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