ACT II

SCENE I. Westminster. A street.

Enter two Gentlemen at several doors.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Whither away so fast?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
O, God save ye.
Even to the Hall, to hear what shall become
Of the great Duke of Buckingham.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
I’ll save you
That labour, sir. All’s now done but the ceremony
Of bringing back the prisoner.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Were you there?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Yes, indeed, was I.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Pray speak what has happened.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
You may guess quickly what.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Is he found guilty?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Yes, truly is he, and condemned upon’t.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
I am sorry for’t.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
So are a number more.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
But pray, how passed it?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
I’ll tell you in a little. The great Duke
Came to the bar, where to his accusations
He pleaded still not guilty and alleged
Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.
The King’s attorney on the contrary
Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions
Of divers witnesses, which the Duke desired
To have brought viva voce to his face;
At which appeared against him his surveyor,
Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor, and John Car,
Confessor to him, with that devil monk,
Hopkins, that made this mischief.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
That was he
That fed him with his prophecies?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
The same.
All these accused 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.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
After all this, how did he bear himself?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
When he was brought again to th’ bar to hear
His knell rung out, his judgement, he was stirred
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 showed a most noble patience.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
I do not think he fears death.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Sure he does not;
He never was so womanish. The cause
He may a little grieve at.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Certainly
The Cardinal is the end of this.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
’Tis likely,
By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder,
Then deputy of Ireland, who removed,
Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,
Lest he should help his father.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
That trick of state
Was a deep envious one.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
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.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
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.

Enter Buckingham from his arraignment. Tipstaves before him, the axe with the edge towards him, Halberds on each side, accompanied with Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir William Sandys and common people.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Stay there, sir,
And see the noble ruined man you speak of.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Let’s stand close and behold him.

BUCKINGHAM.
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 received a traitor’s judgement,
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 loved 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, i’ God’s name.

LOVELL.
I do beseech your Grace, for charity,
If ever any malice in your heart
Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.

BUCKINGHAM.
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 beloved and loving may his rule be;
And when old Time shall lead him to his end,
Goodness and he fill up one monument!

LOVELL.
To th’ waterside 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.

BUCKINGHAM.
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 ’em one day groan for’t.
My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,
Who first raised head against usurping Richard,
Flying for succour to his servant Banister,
Being distressed, was by that wretch betrayed,
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,
Restored 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 we loved 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.

[Exeunt Duke and train.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
O, this is full of pity. Sir, it calls,
I fear, too many curses on their heads
That were the authors.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
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 GENTLEMAN.
Good angels keep it from us!
What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
This secret is so weighty, ’twill require
A strong faith to conceal it.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Let me have it.
I do not talk much.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
I am confident;
You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear
A buzzing of a separation
Between the King and Katherine?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
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.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
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, possessed him with a scruple
That will undo her. To confirm this too,
Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately,
As all think, for this business.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
’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 purposed.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.
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 GENTLEMAN.
’Tis woeful.
We are too open here to argue this.
Let’s think in private more.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. An ante-chamber in the palace.

Enter Lord Chamberlain, reading this letter.

CHAMBERLAIN.
My lord, the horses your lordship sent for, with all the care 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 ’em 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 to the Lord Chamberlain, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.

NORFOLK.
Well met, my Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN.
Good day to both your Graces.

SUFFOLK.
How is the King employed?

CHAMBERLAIN.
I left him private,
Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

NORFOLK.
What’s the cause?

CHAMBERLAIN.
It seems the marriage with his brother’s wife
Has crept too near his conscience.

SUFFOLK.
No, his conscience
Has crept too near another lady.

NORFOLK.
’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.

SUFFOLK.
Pray God he do! He’ll never know himself else.

NORFOLK.
How holily he works in all his business,
And with what zeal! For, now he has cracked 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?

CHAMBERLAIN.
Heaven keep me from such counsel! ’Tis most true:
These news are everywhere, 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.

SUFFOLK.
And free us from his slavery.

NORFOLK.
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
Lie like one lump before him, to be fashioned
Into what pitch he please.

SUFFOLK.
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.

NORFOLK.
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?

CHAMBERLAIN.
Excuse me;
The King has sent me otherwhere. Besides,
You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him.
Health to your lordships.

NORFOLK.
Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain, and the King draws the curtain and sits reading pensively.]

SUFFOLK.
How sad he looks! Sure, he is much afflicted.

KING.
Who’s there? Ha?

NORFOLK.
Pray God he be not angry.

KING.
Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves
Into my private meditations?
Who am I? Ha?

NORFOLK.
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.

KING.
Ye are too bold.
Go to; I’ll make ye know your times of business.
Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?

Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a commission.

Who’s there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey,
The quiet of my wounded conscience,
Thou art a cure fit for a king. [To Campeius.] You’re welcome,
Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom;
Use us and it. [To Wolsey.] My good lord, have great care
I be not found a talker.

WOLSEY.
Sir, you cannot.
I would your Grace would give us but an hour
Of private conference.

KING.
[To Norfolk and Suffolk.] We are busy. Go.

NORFOLK.
[Aside to Suffolk.] This priest has no pride in him?

SUFFOLK.
[Aside to Norfolk.] Not to speak of.
I would not be so sick, though, for his place.
But this cannot continue.

NORFOLK.
[Aside to Suffolk.] If it do,
I’ll venture one have-at-him.

SUFFOLK.
[Aside to Norfolk.] I another.

[Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk.]

WOLSEY.
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 judgement,
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.

KING.
And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome,
And thank the holy conclave for their loves.
They have sent me such a man I would have wished for.

CAMPEIUS.
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 joined with me their servant
In the unpartial judging of this business.

KING.
Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted
Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardiner?

WOLSEY.
I know your Majesty has always loved her
So dear in heart not to deny her that
A woman of less place might ask by law:
Scholars allowed 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.

Enter 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.

[The King and Gardiner walk and whisper.]

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.
Heav’n’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 griped by meaner persons.

KING.
Deliver this with modesty to th’ Queen.

[Exit Gardiner.]

The most convenient place that I can think of
For such receipt of learning is Blackfriars.
There ye shall meet about this weighty business.
My Wolsey, see it furnished. 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 thousandfold more bitter than
’Tis sweet at first t’ 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 perked 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 threepence bowed 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 Caernarfonshire, although there longed
No more to th’ crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

Enter 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 hallowed, 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 t’ 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.

ANNE.
My honoured lord.

[Exit Lord 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, fie upon
This compelled fortune!—have your mouth filled 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 Blackfriars.

Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of 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, the two Cardinals; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. The King takes place under the cloth of state. The two Cardinals sit under him as judges. The Queen takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of consistory; below them the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the stage.

WOLSEY.
Whilst our commission from Rome is read,
Let silence be commanded.

KING.
What’s the need?
It hath already publicly been read,
And on all sides th’ authority allowed;
You may then spare that time.

WOLSEY.
Be’t so. Proceed.

SCRIBE.
Say, “Henry King of England, come into the court.”

CRIER.
Henry King of England, come into the court.

KING.
Here.

SCRIBE.
Say, “Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.”

CRIER.
Katherine Queen of England, come into the court.

[The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks.]

QUEEN KATHERINE.
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 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 blessed
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 unmatched wit and judgement. Ferdinand,
My father, King of Spain, was reckoned one
The wisest prince that there had reigned by many
A year before. It is not to be questioned
That they had gathered a wise council to them
Of every realm, that did debate this business,
Who deemed 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’ th’ name of God,
Your pleasure be fulfilled.

WOLSEY.
You have here, lady,
And of your choice, these reverend fathers, men
Of singular integrity and learning,
Yea, the elect o’ th’ 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.

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 KATHERINE.
Lord Cardinal,
To you I speak.

WOLSEY.
Your pleasure, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE.
Sir,
I am about to weep; but, thinking that
We are a queen, or long have dreamed so, certain
The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
I’ll turn to sparks of fire.

WOLSEY.
Be patient yet.

QUEEN KATHERINE.
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.

WOLSEY.
I do profess
You speak not like yourself, who ever yet
Have stood to charity and displayed th’ 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 KATHERINE.
My lord, my lord,
I am a simple woman, much too weak
T’ oppose your cunning. You’re meek and humble-mouthed;
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,
With meekness and humility; but your heart
Is crammed 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 the King and offers to depart.]

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.
Call her again.

CRIER.
Katherine, Queen of England, come into the court.

GENTLEMAN USHER.
Madam, you are called back.

QUEEN KATHERINE.
What need you note it? Pray you keep your way.
When you are called, 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 and her Attendants.]

KING.
Go thy ways, Kate.
That man i’ th’ world who shall report he has
A better wife, let him in naught 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.

WOLSEY.
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 robbed and bound,
There must I be unloosed, 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?

KING.
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 excused.
But will you be more justified? You ever
Have wished the sleeping of this business, never desired
It to be stirred, but oft have hindered, 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 moved me to’t,
I will be bold with time and your attention.
Then mark th’ inducement. Thus it came; give heed to’t:
My conscience first received a tenderness,
Scruple, and prick on certain speeches uttered
By th’ 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’ th’ 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, entered me,
Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble
The region of my breast; which forced such way
That many mazed considerings did throng
And pressed 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 conceived a male child by me, should
Do no more offices of life to’t than
The grave does to th’ dead; for her male issue
Or died where they were made, or shortly after
This world had aired them. Hence I took a thought
This was a judgement on me, that my kingdom,
Well worthy the best heir o’ th’ world, should not
Be gladded in’t by me. Then follows that
I weighed 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 reverend fathers of the land
And doctors learned. First I began in private
With you, my Lord of Lincoln. You remember
How under my oppression I did reek
When I first moved you.

LINCOLN.
Very well, my liege.

KING.
I have spoke long. Be pleased yourself to say
How far you satisfied me.

LINCOLN.
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 which I had to doubt
And did entreat your Highness to this course
Which you are running here.

KING.
I then moved 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’ th’ world against the person
Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points
Of my alleged reasons, drives 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,
Katherine, our Queen, before the primest creature
That’s paragoned o’ th’ world.

CAMPEIUS.
So please your Highness,
The Queen being absent, ’tis a needful fitness
That we adjourn this court till further day.
Meanwhile must be an earnest motion
Made to the Queen to call back her appeal
She intends unto his Holiness.

KING.
[Aside.] I may perceive
These cardinals trifle with me. I abhor
This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
My learned 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.]