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

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