Part 88

WOLSEY. Till I find more than will or words to do it— I mean your malice—know, officious lords, I dare and must deny it. Now I feel Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy! How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, As if it fed ye, and how sleek and wanton Ye appear in everything may bring my ruin! Follow your envious courses, men of malice; You have Christian warrant for ’em, and no doubt In time will find their fit rewards. That seal You ask with such a violence, the King, Mine and your master, with his own hand gave me; Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life; and, to confirm his goodness, Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who’ll take it?

SURREY. The King that gave it.

WOLSEY. It must be himself, then.

SURREY. Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

WOLSEY. Proud lord, thou liest. Within these forty hours Surrey durst better Have burnt that tongue than said so.

SURREY. Thy ambition, Thou scarlet sin, robbed this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law. The heads of all thy brother cardinals, With thee and all thy best parts bound together, Weighed not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! You sent me Deputy for Ireland, Far from his succour, from the King, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gav’st him, Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, Absolved him with an axe.

WOLSEY. This, and all else This talking lord can lay upon my credit, I answer is most false. The Duke by law Found his deserts. How innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His noble jury and foul cause can witness. If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you You have as little honesty as honour, That in the way of loyalty and truth Toward the King, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be, And all that love his follies.

SURREY. By my soul, Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel My sword i’ th’ lifeblood of thee else. My lords, Can ye endure to hear this arrogance? And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely, To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, Farewell, nobility. Let his Grace go forward And dare us with his cap, like larks.

WOLSEY. All goodness Is poison to thy stomach.

SURREY. Yes, that goodness Of gleaning all the land’s wealth into one, Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion; The goodness of your intercepted packets You writ to the Pope against the King. Your goodness, Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, As you respect the common good, the state Of our despised nobility, our issues, Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles Collected from his life. I’ll startle you Worse than the sacring bell when the brown wench Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal.

WOLSEY. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, But that I am bound in charity against it!

NORFOLK. Those articles, my lord, are in the King’s hand; But thus much, they are foul ones.

WOLSEY. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise When the King knows my truth.

SURREY. This cannot save you. I thank my memory I yet remember Some of these articles, and out they shall. Now, if you can blush and cry “Guilty,” Cardinal, You’ll show a little honesty.

WOLSEY. Speak on, sir; I dare your worst objections. If I blush, It is to see a nobleman want manners.

SURREY. I had rather want those than my head. Have at you! First, that without the King’s assent or knowledge, You wrought to be a legate, by which power You maimed the jurisdiction of all bishops.

NORFOLK. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else To foreign princes, “_ego et rex meus_” Was still inscribed, in which you brought the King To be your servant.

SUFFOLK. Then, that without the knowledge Either of King or Council, when you went Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great seal.

SURREY. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, Without the King’s will or the state’s allowance, A league between his Highness and Ferrara.

SUFFOLK. That out of mere ambition you have caused Your holy hat to be stamped on the King’s coin.

SURREY. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance— By what means got, I leave to your own conscience— To furnish Rome and to prepare the ways You have for dignities, to the mere undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are, Which, since they are of you, and odious, I will not taint my mouth with.

CHAMBERLAIN. O my lord, Press not a falling man too far! ’Tis virtue. His faults lie open to the laws; let them, Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self.

SURREY. I forgive him.

SUFFOLK. Lord Cardinal, the King’s further pleasure is, Because all those things you have done of late By your power legative within this kingdom Fall into th’ compass of a _praemunire_, That therefore such a writ be sued against you To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be Out of the King’s protection. This is my charge.

NORFOLK. And so we’ll leave you to your meditations How to live better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us, The King shall know it and, no doubt, shall thank you. So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal.

[_Exeunt all but Wolsey._]

WOLSEY. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell? A long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, standing amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

CROMWELL. I have no power to speak, sir.

WOLSEY. What, amazed At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fallen indeed.

CROMWELL. How does your Grace?

WOLSEY. Why, well. Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The King has cured me, I humbly thank his Grace, and from these shoulders, These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy: too much honour. O, ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

CROMWELL. I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it.

WOLSEY. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks, Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, To endure more miseries and greater far Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad?

CROMWELL. The heaviest and the worst Is your displeasure with the King.

WOLSEY. God bless him.

CROMWELL. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.

WOLSEY. That’s somewhat sudden. But he’s a learned man. May he continue Long in his Highness’ favour, and do justice For truth’s sake and his conscience, that his bones, When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on him. What more?

CROMWELL. That Cranmer is returned with welcome, Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

WOLSEY. That’s news indeed.

CROMWELL. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the King hath in secrecy long married, This day was viewed in open as his Queen, Going to chapel, and the voice is now Only about her coronation.

WOLSEY. There was the weight that pulled me down. O Cromwell, The King has gone beyond me. All my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever. No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell. I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the King; That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him What and how true thou art. He will advance thee; Some little memory of me will stir him— I know his noble nature—not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety.

CROMWELL. O my lord, Must I then leave you? Must I needs forgo So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. The King shall have my service, but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be yours.

WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let’s dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee; Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in, A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee. Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s. Then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the King. And, prithee, lead me in. There take an inventory of all I have. To the last penny; ’tis the King’s. My robe And my integrity to heaven is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

CROMWELL. Good sir, have patience.

WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell, The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT IV

SCENE I. A street in Westminster.

Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You’re well met once again.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your stand here and behold The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis all my business. At our last encounter, The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis very true. But that time offered sorrow, This, general joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis well. The citizens, I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds, As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever forward In celebration of this day with shows, Pageants, and sights of honour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Never greater, Nor, I’ll assure you, better taken, sir.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. May I be bold to ask what that contains, That paper in your hand?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, ’tis the list Of those that claim their offices this day By custom of the coronation. The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thank you, sir. Had I not known those customs, I should have been beholding to your paper. But I beseech you, what’s become of Katherine, The Princess Dowager? How goes her business?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned and reverend fathers of his order, Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off From Ampthill where the Princess lay; to which She was often cited by them, but appeared not; And, to be short, for not appearance and The King’s late scruple, by the main assent Of all these learned men she was divorced, And the late marriage made of none effect; Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Where she remains now sick.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Alas, good lady!

[_Trumpets._]

The trumpets sound. Stand close. The Queen is coming.

_The order of the coronation_.

_1. A lively flourish of trumpets. 2. Then, two Judges. 3. Lord Chancellor, with purse and mace before him. 4. Choristers, singing. Music. 5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt copper crown. 6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of Surrey, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet. Collars of S’s. 7. Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as High Steward. With him, the Duke of Norfolk, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of S’s. 8. A canopy, borne by four of the Cinque Ports; under it, the Queen in her robe, in her hair, richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London and Winchester. 9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen’s train. 10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers._

[_Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets._]

SECOND GENTLEMAN. A royal train, believe me. These I know. Who’s that that bears the sceptre?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquess Dorset, And that the Earl of Surrey with the rod.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be The Duke of Suffolk.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. ’Tis the same: High Steward.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of Norfolk?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. [_Sees the Queen_.] Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel. Our King has all the Indies in his arms, And more, and richer, when he strains that lady. I cannot blame his conscience.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. They that bear The cloth of honour over her are four barons Of the Cinque Ports.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy, and so are all are near her. I take it she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is, and all the rest are countesses.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. And sometimes falling ones.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. No more of that.

[_Exit the last of the procession._]

Enter a third Gentleman.

God save you, sir. Where have you been broiling?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i’ th’ Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedged in more. I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw The ceremony?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. How was it?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able. The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen To a prepared place in the choir, fell off A distance from her, while her Grace sat down To rest a while, some half an hour or so, In a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man, which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud and to as many tunes. Hats, cloaks, Doublets, I think, flew up, and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living Could say “This is my wife” there, all were woven So strangely in one piece.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what followed?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar, where she kneeled and saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayed devoutly; Then rose again and bowed her to the people, When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen, As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her; which performed, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung _Te Deum_. So she parted, And with the same full state paced back again To York Place, where the feast is held.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, You must no more call it “York Place”, that’s past; For since the Cardinal fell, that title’s lost. ’Tis now the King’s, and called “Whitehall”.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it, But ’tis so lately altered that the old name Is fresh about me.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the Queen?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Stokesley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester, Newly preferred from the King’s secretary; The other, London.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop’s, The virtuous Cranmer.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that. However, yet there is no great breach. When it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteem with th’ King, and truly A worthy friend. The King has made him Master o’ th’ Jewel House, And one already of the Privy Council.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, Which is to th’ court, and there ye shall be my guests, Something I can command. As I walk thither, I’ll tell ye more.

BOTH. You may command us, sir.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Kimbolton.

Enter Katherine Dowager, sick, led between Griffith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman.

GRIFFITH. How does your Grace?

QUEEN KATHERINE. O Griffith, sick to death. My legs like loaden branches bow to th’ earth, Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.

[_She sits._]

So. Now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledst me, That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?

GRIFFITH. Yes, madam, but I think your Grace, Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to’t.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died. If well, he stepped before me happily For my example.

GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam. For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York and brought him forward, As a man sorely tainted, to his answer, He fell sick suddenly and grew so ill He could not sit his mule.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Alas, poor man!

GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodged in the abbey, where the reverend abbot, With all his covent, honourably received him; To whom he gave these words: “O father abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye. Give him a little earth for charity.” So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still; and three nights after this, About the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

QUEEN KATHERINE. So may he rest. His faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that by suggestion Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair-play. His own opinion was his law. I’ th’ presence He would say untruths, and be ever double Both in his words and meaning. He was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His promises were, as he then was, mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example.

GRIFFITH. Noble madam, Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your Highness To hear me speak his good now?

QUEEN KATHERINE. Yes, good Griffith; I were malicious else.

GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely. Ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford, one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heaped happiness upon him, For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little. And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God.

QUEEN KATHERINE. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him! Patience, be near me still, and set me lower: I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to.

[_Sad and solemn music._]

GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit down quiet, For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience.

_The vision._

Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six Personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces, branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head, at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order. At which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing, vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone, And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

GRIFFITH. Madam, we are here.

QUEEN KATHERINE. It is not you I call for. Saw ye none enter since I slept?

GRIFFITH. None, madam.

QUEEN KATHERINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? They promised me eternal happiness And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly.

GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy.

QUEEN KATHERINE. Bid the music leave, They are harsh and heavy to me.

[_Music ceases._]

PATIENCE. Do you note How much her Grace is altered on the sudden? How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold? Mark her eyes.

GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray.

PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her!

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. An’t like your Grace—

QUEEN KATHERINE. You are a saucy fellow. Deserve we no more reverence?

GRIFFITH. You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel.

MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness’ pardon. My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman sent from the King to see you.