Henry VIII

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 Stay’d 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 weigh’d 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. To-day the French, All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, they Made Britain India: every man that stood Show’d 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 the ensuing night Made it a fool and beggar.

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 the Tower.

Buckingham

It will help me nothing To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes my whitest 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. The king To Abergavenny. Is pleased you shall to the 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 obey’d!

Brandon

Here is a warrant from The king to attach Lord Montacute; 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’ the plot: no more, I hope.

Brandon

A monk o’ the Chartreux.

Buckingham

O, Nicholas Hopkins?

Brandon

He.

Buckingham

My surveyor is false; the o’er-great cardinal Hath show’d him gold; my life is spann’d already: I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on, By darkening my clear sun. My lord, farewell. Exeunt.

Queen Katherine

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice; And to bestow your pity on me: for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, Born out of your dominions; having here No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, In what have I offended you? what cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure, That thus you should proceed to put me off, And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness, I have been to you a true and humble wife, At all times to your will conformable; Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry As I saw it inclined: when was the hour I ever contradicted your desire, Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends Have I not strove to love, although I knew He were mine enemy? what friend of mine That had to him derived your anger, did I Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice He was from thence discharged? Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife, in this obedience, Upward of twenty years, and have been blest With many children by you: if, in the course And process of this time, you can report, And prove it too, against mine honour aught, My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty, Against your sacred person, in God’s name, Turn me away; and let the foul’st contempt Shut door upon me, and so give me up To the sharp’st kind of justice.

Speak it here: There’s nothing I have done yet, o’ my conscience, Deserves a corner: would all other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! My lords, I care not, so much I am happy Above a number, if my actions Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw ’em, Envy and base opinion set against ’em, I know my life so even. If your business Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, Out with it boldly: truth loves open dealing.

Wolsey

Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima⁠—

Queen Katherine

O, good my lord, no Latin; I am not such a truant since my coming, As not to know the language I have lived in: A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious; Pray, speak in English: here are some will thank you, If you speak truth, for their poor mistress’ sake; Believe me, she has had much wrong: lord cardinal, The willing’st sin I ever yet committed May be absolved in English.

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: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow 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 open’d. 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.