Part 84

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE VI. London. The Tower

Enter King Henry and Richard, with the Lieutenant on the walls.

RICHARD. Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard?

KING HENRY. Ay, my good lord—my lord, I should say rather. ’Tis sin to flatter; “good” was little better: “Good Gloucester” and “good devil” were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not “good lord”.

RICHARD. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

[_Exit Lieutenant._]

KING HENRY. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

RICHARD. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

KING HENRY. The bird that hath been limed in a bush With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye Where my poor young was limed, was caught, and killed.

RICHARD. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete That taught his son the office of a fowl! And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drowned.

KING HENRY. I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course; The sun that seared the wings of my sweet boy, Thy brother Edward; and thyself, the sea Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come? Is ’t for my life?

RICHARD. Think’st thou I am an executioner?

KING HENRY. A persecutor I am sure thou art. If murdering innocents be executing, Why, then thou art an executioner.

RICHARD. Thy son I killed for his presumption.

KING HENRY. Hadst thou been killed when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy: that many a thousand Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s, And many an orphan’s water-standing eye, Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’, Orphans for their parents’ timeless death, Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howled, and hideous tempest shook down trees; The raven rooked her on the chimney’s top, And chatt’ring pies in dismal discord sung; Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope, To wit, an indigested and deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou cam’st to bite the world; And, if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou cam’st—

RICHARD. I’ll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech.

[_Stabs him._]

For this, amongst the rest, was I ordained.

KING HENRY. Ay, and for much more slaughter after this. O God, forgive my sins, and pardon thee!

[_Dies._]

RICHARD. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor King’s death. O, may such purple tears be always shed From those that wish the downfall of our house! If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither—

[_Stabs him again._]

I that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed, ’tis true that Henry told me of, For I have often heard my mother say I came into the world with my legs forward. Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste And seek their ruin that usurped our right? The midwife wondered, and the women cried “O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!” And so I was, which plainly signified That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, Let hell make crooked my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother; And this word “love,” which greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me. I am myself alone. Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light, But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; For I will buzz abroad such prophecies That Edward shall be fearful of his life; And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death. King Henry and the Prince his son are gone; Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, Counting myself but bad till I be best. I’ll throw thy body in another room, And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

[_Exit with the body._]

SCENE VII. London. The Palace

Flourish. Enter King Edward, Queen Elizabeth, George, Richard, Hastings, Nurse, carrying infant Prince Edward, and Attendants.

KING EDWARD. Once more we sit in England’s royal throne, Repurchased with the blood of enemies. What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn, Have we mowed down in tops of all their pride! Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renowned For hardy and undoubted champions; Two Cliffords, as the father and the son; And two Northumberlands; two braver men Ne’er spurred their coursers at the trumpet’s sound; With them the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague, That in their chains fettered the kingly lion And made the forest tremble when they roared. Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat And made our footstool of security. Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. Young Ned, for thee thine uncles and myself Have in our armours watched the winter’s night, Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat, That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace; And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain.

RICHARD. [_Aside_.] I’ll blast his harvest, if your head were laid; For yet I am not looked on in the world. This shoulder was ordained so thick to heave, And heave it shall some weight or break my back. Work thou the way, and that shall execute.

KING EDWARD. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely Queen; And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

GEORGE. The duty that I owe unto your Majesty I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

RICHARD. And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st, Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. [_Aside_.] To say the truth, so Judas kissed his master And cried “All hail!” when as he meant all harm.

KING EDWARD. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves.

GEORGE. What will your Grace have done with Margaret? Reignier, her father, to the King of France Hath pawned the Sicils and Jerusalem, And hither have they sent it for her ransom.

KING EDWARD. Away with her and waft her hence to France. And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court? Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell, sour annoy! For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

[_Exeunt._]

KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

Contents

ACT I Prologue. Scene I. London. An ante-chamber in the palace Scene II. The same. The council-chamber Scene III. An ante-chamber in the palace Scene IV. A Hall in York Place

ACT II Scene I. Westminster. A street Scene II. An ante-chamber in the palace Scene III. An ante-chamber of the Queen’s apartments Scene IV. A hall in Blackfriars

ACT III Scene I. London. The Queen’s apartments Scene II. Ante-chamber to the King’s apartment

ACT IV Scene I. A street in Westminster Scene II. Kimbolton

ACT V Scene I. A gallery in the palace Scene II. Lobby before the council-chamber Scene III. The palace yard Scene IV. The palace Epilogue

Dramatis Personæ

KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

DUKE OF NORFOLK DUKE OF SUFFOLK

CARDINAL WOLSEY SECRETARIES to Wolsey CROMWELL, servant to Wolsey CARDINAL CAMPEIUS GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester PAGE to Gardiner

QUEEN KATHERINE, wife to King Henry, afterwards divorced GRIFFITH, gentleman usher to Queen Katherine PATIENCE, woman to Queen Katherine Queen’s GENTLEMAN USHER CAPUTIUS, Ambassador from the Emperor Charles V

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM LORD ABERGAVENNY, Buckingham’s son-in-law EARL OF SURREY, Buckingham’s son-in-law SIR NICHOLAS VAUX SURVEYOR to the Duke of Buckingham BRANDON SERGEANT-at-Arms Three Gentlemen

ANNE BULLEN, her Maid of Honour, afterwards Queen An OLD LADY, friend to Anne Bullen LORD CHAMBERLAIN LORD SANDYS (called also SIR WILLIAM SANDYS) SIR THOMAS LOVELL SIR HENRY GUILDFORD

BISHOP OF LINCOLN CRANMER, archbishop of Canterbury LORD CHANCELLOR GARTER King-of-Arms SIR ANTHONY DENNY DOCTOR BUTTS, physician to the King Door-KEEPER of the Council-chamber PORTER, and his Man A CRIER PROLOGUE EPILOGUE

Spirits, Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants

SCENE: London; Westminster; Kimbolton

Enter Prologue.

THE PROLOGUE. I come no more to make you laugh. Things now That bear a weighty and a serious brow, Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, We now present. Those that can pity, here May, if they think it well, let fall a tear; The subject will deserve it. Such as give Their money out of hope they may believe May here find truth too. Those that come to see Only a show or two, and so agree The play may pass, if they be still and willing, I’ll undertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short hours. Only they That come to hear a merry bawdy play, A noise of targets, or to see a fellow In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, Will be deceived. For, gentle hearers, know To rank our chosen truth with such a show As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting Our own brains and the opinion that we bring To make that only true we now intend, Will leave us never an understanding friend. Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are known The first and happiest hearers of the town, Be sad, as we would make ye. Think ye see The very persons of our noble story As they were living; think you see them great, And followed with the general throng and sweat Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see How soon this mightiness meets misery; And if you can be merry then, I’ll say A man may weep upon his wedding day.

[_Exit._]

ACT I

SCENE I. London. An ante-chamber in the palace.

Enter the Duke of Norfolk at one door; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny.

BUCKINGHAM. Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done Since last we saw in France?

NORFOLK. I thank your Grace, Healthful, and ever since a fresh admirer Of what I saw there.

BUCKINGHAM. An untimely ague Stayed me a prisoner in my chamber when Those suns of glory, those two lights of men, Met in the vale of Andren.

NORFOLK. ’Twixt Guynes and Arde. I was then present, saw them salute on horseback, Beheld them when they lighted, how they clung In their embracement, as they grew together— Which had they, what four throned ones could have weighed Such a compounded one?

BUCKINGHAM. All the whole time I was my chamber’s prisoner.

NORFOLK. Then you lost The view of earthly glory. Men might say, Till this time pomp was single, but now married To one above itself. Each following day Became the next day’s master, till the last Made former wonders its. Today the French, All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, Shone down the English; and tomorrow, they Made Britain India: every man that stood Showed like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were As cherubins, all gilt. The madams too, Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear The pride upon them, that their very labour Was to them as a painting. Now this masque Was cried incomparable; and th’ ensuing night Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, As presence did present them: him in eye, Still him in praise; and being present both, ’Twas said they saw but one, and no discerner Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns— For so they phrase ’em—by their heralds challenged The noble spirits to arms, they did perform Beyond thought’s compass, that former fabulous story, Being now seen possible enough, got credit, That Bevis was believed.

BUCKINGHAM. O, you go far.

NORFOLK. As I belong to worship and affect In honour honesty, the tract of everything Would by a good discourser lose some life, Which action’s self was tongue to. All was royal; To the disposing of it nought rebelled; Order gave each thing view; the office did Distinctly his full function.

BUCKINGHAM. Who did guide, I mean, who set the body and the limbs Of this great sport together, as you guess?

NORFOLK. One, certes, that promises no element In such a business.

BUCKINGHAM. I pray you who, my lord?

NORFOLK. All this was ordered by the good discretion Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.

BUCKINGHAM. The devil speed him! No man’s pie is freed From his ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder That such a keech can with his very bulk Take up the rays o’ th’ beneficial sun And keep it from the earth.

NORFOLK. Surely, sir, There’s in him stuff that puts him to these ends; For, being not propped by ancestry, whose grace Chalks successors their way, nor called upon For high feats done to th’ crown; neither allied To eminent assistants, but spider-like, Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note The force of his own merit makes his way A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys A place next to the King.

ABERGAVENNY. I cannot tell What heaven hath given him—let some graver eye Pierce into that—but I can see his pride Peep through each part of him. Whence has he that? If not from hell, the devil is a niggard, Or has given all before, and he begins A new hell in himself.

BUCKINGHAM. Why the devil, Upon this French going-out, took he upon him, Without the privity o’ th’ King, t’ appoint Who should attend on him? He makes up the file Of all the gentry, for the most part such To whom as great a charge as little honour He meant to lay upon; and his own letter, The honourable board of council out, Must fetch him in he papers.

ABERGAVENNY. I do know Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have By this so sickened their estates that never They shall abound as formerly.

BUCKINGHAM. O, many Have broke their backs with laying manors on ’em For this great journey. What did this vanity But minister communication of A most poor issue?

NORFOLK. Grievingly I think The peace between the French and us not values The cost that did conclude it.

BUCKINGHAM. Every man, After the hideous storm that followed, was A thing inspired and, not consulting, broke Into a general prophecy, that this tempest, Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded The sudden breach on’t.

NORFOLK. Which is budded out, For France hath flawed the league, and hath attached Our merchants’ goods at Bordeaux.

ABERGAVENNY. Is it therefore Th’ ambassador is silenced?

NORFOLK. Marry, is’t.

ABERGAVENNY. A proper title of a peace, and purchased At a superfluous rate!

BUCKINGHAM. Why, all this business Our reverend Cardinal carried.

NORFOLK. Like it your Grace, The state takes notice of the private difference Betwixt you and the Cardinal. I advise you— And take it from a heart that wishes towards you Honour and plenteous safety—that you read The Cardinal’s malice and his potency Together; to consider further that What his high hatred would effect wants not A minister in his power. You know his nature, That he’s revengeful, and I know his sword Hath a sharp edge; it’s long, and ’t may be said It reaches far, and where ’twill not extend, Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel; You’ll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock That I advise your shunning.

Enter Cardinal Wolsey, the purse borne before him, certain of the Guard and two Secretaries with papers. The Cardinal in his passage fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain.

WOLSEY. The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor, ha? Where’s his examination?

SECRETARY. Here, so please you.

WOLSEY. Is he in person ready?

SECRETARY. Ay, please your Grace.

WOLSEY. Well, we shall then know more, and Buckingham Shall lessen this big look.

[_Exeunt Cardinal Wolsey and his train._]

BUCKINGHAM. This butcher’s cur is venom-mouthed, and I Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book Outworths a noble’s blood.

NORFOLK. What, are you chafed? Ask God for temp’rance. That’s the appliance only Which your disease requires.

BUCKINGHAM. I read in ’s looks Matter against me, and his eye reviled Me as his abject object. At this instant He bores me with some trick. He’s gone to th’ King. I’ll follow, and outstare him.

NORFOLK. Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What ’tis you go about. To climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allowed his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you; be to yourself As you would to your friend.

BUCKINGHAM. I’ll to the King, And from a mouth of honour quite cry down This Ipswich fellow’s insolence, or proclaim There’s difference in no persons.

NORFOLK. Be advised. Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself. We may outrun By violent swiftness that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor till ’t run o’er, In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised. I say again, there is no English soul More stronger to direct you than yourself, If with the sap of reason you would quench, Or but allay the fire of passion.

BUCKINGHAM. Sir, I am thankful to you, and I’ll go along By your prescription; but this top-proud fellow— Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but From sincere motions—by intelligence, And proofs as clear as founts in July when We see each grain of gravel, I do know To be corrupt and treasonous.

NORFOLK. Say not “treasonous.”

BUCKINGHAM. To th’ King I’ll say’t, and make my vouch as strong As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox, Or wolf, or both—for he is equal ravenous As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief As able to perform’t, his mind and place Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally— Only to show his pomp as well in France As here at home, suggests the King our master To this last costly treaty, th’ interview, That swallowed so much treasure, and like a glass Did break i’ th’ rinsing.

NORFOLK. Faith, and so it did.

BUCKINGHAM. Pray give me favour, sir. This cunning Cardinal The articles o’ th’ combination drew As himself pleased; and they were ratified As he cried “Thus let be,” to as much end As give a crutch to the dead. But our Count-Cardinal Has done this, and ’tis well, for worthy Wolsey, Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows— Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy To the old dam treason—Charles the Emperor, Under pretence to see the Queen his aunt— For ’twas indeed his colour, but he came To whisper Wolsey—here makes visitation. His fears were that the interview betwixt England and France might through their amity Breed him some prejudice, for from this league Peeped harms that menaced him. He privily Deals with our Cardinal, and, as I trow— Which I do well, for I am sure the Emperor Paid ere he promised, whereby his suit was granted Ere it was asked. But when the way was made And paved with gold, the Emperor thus desired That he would please to alter the King’s course And break the foresaid peace. Let the King know, As soon he shall by me, that thus the Cardinal Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases And for his own advantage.

NORFOLK. I am sorry To hear this of him, and could wish he were Something mistaken in’t.

BUCKINGHAM. No, not a syllable. I do pronounce him in that very shape He shall appear in proof.

Enter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and two or three of the Guard.

BRANDON. Your office, sergeant: execute it.

SERGEANT. Sir, My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I Arrest thee of high treason, in the name Of our most sovereign King.

BUCKINGHAM. Lo you, my lord, The net has fall’n upon me. I shall perish Under device and practice.

BRANDON. I am sorry To see you ta’en from liberty, to look on The business present. ’Tis his Highness’ pleasure You shall to th’ Tower.

BUCKINGHAM. It will help nothing To plead mine innocence, for that dye is on me Which makes my whit’st part black. The will of heaven Be done in this and all things. I obey. O my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well.

BRANDON. Nay, he must bear you company. [_To Abergavenny_.] The King Is pleased you shall to th’ Tower, till you know How he determines further.

ABERGAVENNY. As the Duke said, The will of heaven be done, and the King’s pleasure By me obeyed.

BRANDON. Here is warrant from The King t’ attach Lord Montague, and the bodies Of the Duke’s confessor, John de la Car, One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor—

BUCKINGHAM. So, so; These are the limbs o’ th’ plot. No more, I hope?

BRANDON. A monk o’ th’ Chartreux.

BUCKINGHAM. O, Nicholas Hopkins?

BRANDON. He.

BUCKINGHAM. My surveyor is false. The o’er-great Cardinal Hath showed him gold. My life is spanned already. I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on By dark’ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. The same. The council-chamber.

Cornets. Enter King Henry, leaning on the Cardinal’s shoulder, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Lovell; the Cardinal places himself under the King’s feet on his right side.

KING. My life itself, and the best heart of it, Thanks you for this great care. I stood i’ th’ level Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks To you that choked it. Let be called before us That gentleman of Buckingham’s; in person I’ll hear his confessions justify, And point by point the treasons of his master He shall again relate.

A noise within crying “Room for the Queen!” Enter Queen Katherine, ushered by the Duke of Norfolk and the Duke of Suffolk. She kneels. The King riseth from his state, takes her up and kisses her.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Nay, we must longer kneel; I am a suitor.

KING. Arise, and take place by us.

[_He placeth her by him._]

Half your suit Never name to us; you have half our power; The other moiety ere you ask is given. Repeat your will and take it.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Thank your Majesty. That you would love yourself, and in that love Not unconsidered leave your honour nor The dignity of your office, is the point Of my petition.

KING. Lady mine, proceed.

QUEEN KATHERINE. I am solicited, not by a few, And those of true condition, that your subjects Are in great grievance. There have been commissions Sent down among ’em which hath flawed the heart Of all their loyalties; wherein, although, My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches Most bitterly on you as putter-on Of these exactions, yet the King our master, Whose honour heaven shield from soil, even he escapes not Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks The sides of loyalty, and almost appears In loud rebellion.

NORFOLK. Not “almost appears,” It doth appear; for, upon these taxations, The clothiers all, not able to maintain The many to them longing, have put off The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who, Unfit for other life, compelled by hunger And lack of other means, in desperate manner Daring the event to th’ teeth, are all in uproar, And danger serves among them.

KING. Taxation? Wherein? And what taxation? My Lord Cardinal, You that are blamed for it alike with us, Know you of this taxation?

WOLSEY. Please you, sir, I know but of a single part in aught Pertains to th’ state, and front but in that file Where others tell steps with me.

QUEEN KATHERINE. No, my lord? You know no more than others? But you frame Things that are known alike, which are not wholesome To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are Most pestilent to the hearing, and to bear ’em, The back is sacrifice to the load. They say They are devised by you, or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation.