Re-enter WOLSEY, with GARDINER.

Wol. Give me your hand: much joy and favour to

you;

You are the king's now.

Gard.

But to be commanded

For ever by your grace, whose hand has rais'd me. [Aside. K. Hen. Come hither, Gardiner.

[They converse apart. Cam. My lord of York, was not one doctor Pace In this man's place before him?

Wol.

Yes, he was.

Yes, surely.

Cam. Was he not held a learned man? Wol. Cam. Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread then Even of yourself, lord cardinal.

Wol.

How! of me?

Cam. 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 griev'd him, That he ran mad, and died.

Wol.
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.

K. Hen. Deliver this with modesty to the 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 furnish'd. O my lord,
Would it not grieve an able man, to leave

So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience,― O, 't is a tender place, and I must leave her.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-An Antechamber in 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 liv'd 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;-0 now, after
So many courses of the sun enthron'd,

Still growing in a majesty and pomp,-the which
To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than

"T is sweet at first to acquire,-after this process,
To give her the avaunt! it is a pity

Would move a monster.

Old L.

Melt and lament for her.

Anne.

Hearts of most hard temper

O, God's will! inuch better

She ne'er had known pomp: though it be temporal,
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce

It from the bearer, 't is a sufferance, panging

As soul and body's severing.

Old L.

She's a stranger now again.

Anne.

Alas, poor lady!

So much the more

Must pity drop upon her. Verily,

I swear, 't is 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 L.

Is our best having.

Anne.

Our content

By my troth and maidenhead,

I would not be a queen.

a Quarrel is an arrow.

Old L.

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 cheverila conscience would receive,
If you might please to stretch it.

Anne.
Nay, good troth,-
Old L. Yes, troth, and troth,-You would not be a

queen?

Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven.

Old L. T is strange: a three-pence 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 L. Then you are weakly made: Pluck off a little; b

I would not be a young count in your way,

For more than blushing comes to: if your back
Cannot vouchsafe this burden, 't is 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 L.

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?

a Cheveril-kid-skin. So in Romeo and Juliet,' "O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad."

b Pluck off a little-descend a little: You refuse to be a queen, a duchess, try a count.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What wer'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.

Cham. 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!

Cham. You hear a gentle mind, and heavenly bless

ings

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 to 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.

I do not know

Anne.
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.

Cham.
Lady,
I shall not fail to improve the fair conceit

The king hath of you.-I have perus'd her well; [Aside. 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 honour'd lord.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Old L. 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 to me.

Old L. How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no. There was a lady once, ('t is 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 L.

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 have heard, to her.

Old L.

What do you think me? [Exeunt."