Henry VIII, William Shakespeare [good story books to read .TXT] 📗

Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,
Embrace and love this man.

Gardiner

With a true heart
And brother-love I do it.

Cranmer

And let heaven
Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.

King

Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart:
The common voice, I see, is verified
Of thee, which says thus, “Do my Lord of Canterbury
A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.”
Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long
To have this young one made a Christian.
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;
So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. Exeunt.

Scene IV

The palace yard.

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. Porter

You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

Within. Good master porter, I belong to the larder.

Porter Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to ’em. I’ll scratch your heads: you must be seeing christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals? Man

Pray, sir, be patient: ’tis as much impossible⁠—
Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons⁠—
To scatter ’em, as ’tis to make ’em sleep
On May-day morning; which will never be:
We may as well push against Powle’s, as stir em.

Porter How got they in, and be hang’d? Man

Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot⁠—
You see the poor remainder⁠—could distribute,
I made no spare, sir.

Porter You did nothing, sir. Man

I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
To mow ’em down before me: but if I spared any
That had a head to hit, either young or old,
He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again;
And that I would not for a cow, God save her!
Within. Do you hear, master porter?

Porter I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. Man What would you have me do? Porter What should you do, but knock ’em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together. Man The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman; who cried out “Clubs!” when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o’ the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place: at length they came to the broom-staff to me; I defied ’em still: when suddenly a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let ’em win the work: the devil was amongst ’em, I think, surely. Porter These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of ’em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. Enter Lord Chamberlain. Chamberlain

Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here!
They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,
As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,
These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows:
There’s a trim rabble let in: are all these
Your faithful friends o’ the suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from the christening.

Porter

An’t please your honour,
We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:
An army cannot rule ’em.

Chamberlain

As I live,
If the king blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all
By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;
And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when
Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;
They’re come already from the christening:
Go, break among the press, and find a way out
To let the troop pass fairly; or I’ll find
A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.

Porter Make way there for the princess. Man

You great fellow,
Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.

Porter

You i’ the camlet, get up o’ the rail;
I’ll peck you o’er the pales else. Exeunt.

Scene V

The palace.

Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his marshal’s staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening-gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, etc., train borne by a Lady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the