University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE—Sir Thomas's Library.
Sir Thomas and all his Family at Dinner.
SIR THOMAS.
Proceed we with dispatch, or I must fly
Ere we have toasted these our wedded friends.
Fleet as the hare is Time, when happy man
Entreats him to retard his rapid hours;
But, when in woe he prays him to be gone,
More tardy than the slow-worm or the snail.
Come, happiness to all whose hearts are one,
To wives and husbands. May ye never jar,
But live to the remotest hours of life
Concordant as the notes of fellow pipes
That sound for ever charming unison.
Cecilia, mark my lesson.

CECILIA.
Sir, I do,
And hope my husband will have never cause
To wish undone the fortune of to-day.
But women, let me tell him, are deceitful.
They wear a gentle aspect till they wed,
And ever after domineer. So puss
Fondles the mouse her pris'ner, with light paw
Touching his velvet coat, and purring loud
Her treach'rous promise to be ever kind.
She shuts her eyes and seems almost asleep
Hiding the tigress in a patient smile.
But short the respite—mercy soon expires—
She springs with savage fierceness on her prey,
Fixes her teeth and talons, swears his death
And eats him up in anger. Sir, I'll tell you
To whom the man who seeks a faultless wife
May be compar'd. He's like the foolish boy
Who thrust his hand into a bag of vipers
To find a single eel, and thought it hard
The reptile bit him, and the fish escap'd.

SIR THOMAS.
See, Sir, how bold and talkative a wife
You have to bear withal. 'Twas nature's mind
To make a lawyer of my youngest daughter,
Had fashion been her friend. She has a tongue
That never rests. 'Tis a perpetual clock
That needs no winding up. She was a prattler
E'en from her cradle. She would talk and laugh
From dawn to sunset, and was scarce content
To let her active wit lie still, and rest
E'en in her sleep.

CECILIA.
Yes, Sir, she has a tongue
That never halts for want of argument.
She can dispute, and reason, and tell tales,
As endless as the coward's vain account
Of bloody battles and heroic acts,
Or Lady Faddle's tedious history
Of her grave ancestors of Faddle-hall.

SIR THOMAS.
Come, come, no scandal, Madam. Lash the vice,
But ever spare the person. Of offence
Speak boldly to the ear of him who errs,
But never tell him that himself offends.
I know a lady who finds fault with others,
Yet has some little foibles in herself.
She takes of liberty too much herself,
Giving to others not enough. She loves
To laugh, and sing, and ramble o'er the field,
But prisons the poor butterfly and bird.

CECILIA,
rising.
Sir, I perceive that lady is Cecilia.
Let me acquit myself. You have been looking
Into the little boxes on my shelf.
You found in most a butterfly or moth.
I had not cheated them of one small link
Of native liberty. I found them all
Just at the close of Autumn; trav'lling some,
Mere harmless caterpillars, to find shelter
From the keen breath of all-consuming Winter,
Some cradled in a warm ingenious shell,
And fasten'd to the windows. To them all
I lent a fost'ring hand, made them warm beds
Of wool and cotton, found them each a house,
And pleas'd as Pharaoh's daughter to preserve
The little friendless Hebrew, day by day
Watch'd the return of scarce-apparent life,
Sustain'd for months by nothing. At the last,
Each from his tomb arose, superbly cloath'd,
And mounting on a pair of beauteous wings
Left me rejoicing. For the prison'd bird,
'Tis a poor gold-finch that I bought by chance
Of cruel boys, who stole it from the nest.
It could not fly, and I had much to do
To find the food it lik'd. I fed it long,
And, when I thought it fledg'd, unlock'd the cage,
And bade it fly away. It flew indeed,
But had not heart to leave me, perching still
Upon my head, my shoulder, or my hand,
And oft returning to the cage it left.
It had been cruel to have forc'd it out.
So when the day is clear, and puss withdrawn,
I open all my windows and my cage,
Fasten my door, and bid it go or stay
E'en as it pleases. While I read within
It never leaves me. When I stray abroad,
I often find it in the garden walk,
Hopping from branch to branch, happy to twit
Close at my side. And still at my return
I meet it in my chamber, or alone
Or by a friend attended, whom its tongue
Advises to be bold, but pleads in vain,
For yet it lives unmated.

SIR JOHN.
Brave defence!
Let me be judge, and be the verdict found
For the defendant. She has won her cause.
The daughter triumphs and the father fails.

SIR THOMAS.
Sir, I confess it. She has well explain'd
The motives of her conduct. Had we all
Intentions good and generous as her's,
Law were a muzzled bear, that could not bite,
And lawyers beggars. Let me pay the costs.
And more, I promise ere the week expires,
To yield her damages shall thrice requite
The wrong I've done her. Let it now subside.
Time hurries. I can drink but one glass more,
And hark a moment to Eliza's song,
Then I must leave you, and away to court.
Come, Sir, the King. (They all drink the King.)


Enter the King.
KING.
The King is here to thank you.
Ladies, be seated, for we come to hear,
Not to disturb you. Here's a vacant chair.
Deem us still absent, and let mirth proceed.
The song, the song.

SIR THOMAS.
Sir, give us leave to breathe.
Your unexpected presence has surpris'd us.
Our songstress is but young, and seldom dares
Her simple strain before the public ear.
Your majesty's attention has, I see,
Quite overaw'd her. Let us pause a while,
And first apologize for our rude song.
To your judicious ear it cannot give
Exquisite pleasure. 'Tis but modest air
Embellish'd with no learning, made to please
The herd of hearers, not to win applause
From stubborn critics and fastidious taste,
Like the grave compositions of our King.

KING.
Ay, ay, my masses—they are grave indeed,
And tolerably happy. I thank God
He gave me talents, tho' he made me great.

SIR THOMAS.
Without a doubt, Sir, to your ready pen
Divinity and music have ow'd much.
We must intreat you to be partly deaf,
And let your judgment sleep, while we perform,
To give it no offence. Come, we'll begin.

(Eliza sings, and is followed by Cecilia. During the song Sir Thomas whispers to his father, Sir John makes signs to the rest, and as soon as it is ended they all retire, leaving the King, and Sir Thomas together.)
KING.
Sweet music, Sir, sweet music. But why fly
Our fair companions? Is the concert done?

SIR THOMAS.
Sir, they have apprehensions that you come
Not to be wearied with their poor performance,
But to consult their father. I had sought,
Obedient to your majesty's command,
Your court at Greenwich, just about to rise
When you appear'd amongst us, but your visit
Seem'd to repeal your order, and methought,
More active than myself, you came to Chelsea
To hasten business which had else been stayed.

KING.
Such was my purpose. I am come, Sir Thomas,
Knowing your great integrity and learning,
Once more to question you of my divorce.
You know the painful scruples I once urg'd
Relating to my conscience. They exist
And still disturb me, but I know your mind,
And mention them no more. I bring you now
Reasons of state, which, I beseech you, weigh
With great deliberation, and unfold
Your whole opinion of them, not abash'd,
Lest the thing spoken should offend our ear.
Suppose my former scruples done away,
Suppose me of salvation not despairing,
Tho' wedded to my brother Arthur's wife.
I have one daughter. Should her father die,
What are the perils that await my kingdom?
You know the emperor and king of France
Have both refus'd her, urging for excuse
She was not born in wedlock. When my father
Espous'd me to the widow of my brother,
You know the old Archbishop Warham told him
'Twas inconsistent with the law of God,
Which popes could not dispense with. Mov'd to doubt
You know he made me, on that very day
I reach'd the period of my thirteenth year,
Enter a private protestation 'gainst my marriage.
Again, you know he gave me solemn charge
Upon his death-bed, never to consummate
A marriage so prepostrous. His advice,
Misled by Winchester, I disobey'd.
And see the consequence—two princes dead—
Only my daughter Mary left alive,
And Catharine my wife no longer fruitful.
Suppose I die. My sister Marg'ret's son,
The king of Scotland, will put in a claim
To England's crown, declaring this my daughter
Not lawful heir. My sister Mary too,
Queen dowager of France, will urge pretensions,
Alledging the young king of Scots a stranger,
My daughter illegitimate. And thus,
O horrible to think of! this whole land
Will be again expos'd to civil broils,
Worse than the wars of Lancaster and York.
Three pow'rful parties will let loose their rage,
And my poor people be consum'd in vain,
As in the days of Warwick and foul Richard.
Now, let me ask you, is it not a deed
I owe my kingdom, to divorce a wife
Whose issue are attended by God's curse,
And wed another which may bring me sons,
Whose solid title cannot be disputed?
Speak to this argument, and nothing fear.

SIR THOMAS.
Sir, 'tis a matter so profound and deep,
I have no judgment in it.

KING.
Well, think of it.
I know your cautious mind is always late
And tardy to determine. Weigh it well,
And meet me presently at Hampton Court.
Think of my kingdom, and my hapless self,
A prey to scruples that disturb my rest,
And eat away the pith of life and health.
Be my physician, give me good advice,
Remove my malady and ease my heart,
I'll give you good preferment for your pains.

(Exit.)
SIR THOMAS.
Ay, so it is. Lust will have no denial.
What specious argument, what neat excuse,
Cannot the hungry libertine invent,
To shew the folly of wise abstinence,
The wisdom of indulgence. Ah! poor Queen!
I see it thy fortune to come down,
And fall a victim to contempt and wrong.
Yet shalt thou find a friend, whose hand and heart
Shall dare sustain thee, tho' he lose his head.
I'll hence this moment, open my whole mind,
Convince the King how much he is bewitch'd,
And plead thy cause again. Cath'rine perhaps
May yet prevail, give her an advocate
Whose warm defence shall clothe in equal terms
The silent agonies of injur'd worth.
I'll go and bid my family adieu,
And follow after him without delay.

(Exit.)
SCENE—Hampton Court.
Enter the King and Anne Bullen.
ANNE.
Your majesty is speedy.

KING.
My dear Anne,
How could I loiter when I thought of you.

ANNE.
What says Sir Thomas, Sir.

KING.
Why, nothing yet.
I left him to consider. But I think
He may as well sustain the joint assault
Of winds and waters in one current rushing,
As conquer argument so strong and pithy.
Dear girl, I shall my purpose yet accomplish,
And make thee partner of my bed and throne.
If we can win the suffrage of Sir Thomas,
I care not for a host of angry popes,
Legates, and Cardinals. His countenance,
Fam'd as he is for learning, wit and worth,
Will warp the multitude to deem our marriage
Judicious and expedient. Should he yield,
None can dispute our justice. The divorce
Shall be effected, and my gentle Anne
Be rais'd to honour shall become her beauty,
A jewel set in gold. Kiss me, you rogue.

ANNE.
Allure me not. You are another's husband.
When death or dispensation has unlock'd
The chain that binds you, and we both are one,
I may consent. But ah! 'tis not for Anne,
Tho' she adores you, to be made your queen.
Less she will never be. No, she will shun
Courts and the smile of kings, to die in peace
An honest wife. She knows a noble youth
Who will receive her with extended arms
And gladly make her mistress of his house.
Him will she seek, content with humble means,
And not ambitious to be seen at Court.

KING.
Fie, fie, you shall not leave me. You shall reign
The queen of England and her monarch's glory.
I'll send Campeggio instantly away,
And bid my officers insult him. Rome
Shall never more have footing in this isle.
I'll rule the church myself. I'll play the son
Of Macedonian Philip, and if art
Cannot untie this everlasting knot
I'll draw my sword and cut it.
(Enter Norfolk.)
Well, what now?

NORFOLK.
Sir Thomas More waits on your majesty.

(Exit.)
KING.
Oh! is he come. Dear Anne, retire awhile.
I trust he brings us comfort by his speed.
I'll seek thee presently and tell the news.
(Exit Anne.)
(Enter Sir Thomas.)
Welcome, Sir Thomas, welcome. You have wings
Swift as the falcon's, before which the flight
Of doves themselves is tardy.

SIR THOMAS.
Sir, I came
Impell'd by duty, which has equal power
To the sulphureous grain, that ushers home
Speedy as lightning or immediate thought,
It's deadly messenger.

KING.
What news d'ye bring?
Am I to thank you for content and ease?
Or come you, like your own destructive ball,
To kill and not to cure? Why stand you silent?
If there was aught amiss in what I urg'd,
Boldly condemn it; but if aught appear'd,
And sure it was so, just and reasonable,
Be not unwilling to compose my soul,
And feed it with the milk of kind advice.

SIR THOMAS.
Sir, I would gladly serve you—if I could.
I would as freely give you my advice
To do the thing you wish, as satisfy
Innocent longing in an only child,
Could it be done with honour, and no loss
To your own credit. But, as in my child,
The more I lov'd it, I should strive the more
To conquer wishes that might undermine
Life's little happiness, so, Sir, to you
I shew a froward and ungentle mood,
Daring your anger by discreet denial,
Rather than gratifying dang'rous hopes
By evil counsel and undue compliance.

KING.
Well, well, I am not angry. Let me hear,
What's your opinion?

SIR THOMAS.
'Tis a perilous case.
Your majesty has taught me to fear much,
Should Heaven bless you with no other issue
Than the young Princess Mary.

KING.
Ay, fierce wars,
Wars that may make my kingdom swim in blood.
More fiery and consumptive than the wrath
Of Turks and Saracens, or wand'ring Arabs,
That drop their quarrel never.

SIR THOMAS.
Yet, dread Sir,
I must acquaint you, were the cause my own,
I'd trust to Providence. The clouded dawn
Has often brighten'd, and a frowning morn
Been the rude prologue of a placid day.
What Heav'n intends no mortal can avert.
We may appease, but by no art evade
The blow it threatens. If we still offend,
Our ingenuity defeats itself,
Our labour yields us nothing, but we sink
The more we struggle in the gulf we shun.
Sir, give me audience. Cath'rine is your wife,
As lawfully as wife was ever wedded.
Consider, if to 'scape a future evil
You do a present wrong, shall not God's curse
Be doubled? Is it likely you shall thrive
By being too ungentle to a widow,
The widow of your brother, your own wife,
And what is more, a widow that for worth
Was never equall'd! Question your own heart.
It will assure you that the piteous moan
Of injur'd innocence, when thus oppress'd
Alone and helpless, has a friend above,
Who will require avengement of her wrongs
'Gainst all the kings on earth. Forgive me, Sir,
I am too bold. My sov'reign lady's virtues
Make me forget my manners. Would to God
Your majesty would once more look upon her,
Restore her to your favour, and live happy,
As I have found you many and many a day
With her alone. Think of the pleasant hours
When she, all gentleness, sat by your side,
Acting the patient wife and pious mother,
Her infant daughter sleeping in her arms,
Her eyes fast fix'd on you, and beaming forth
Affection inexpressible, the while
Her tongue, in gentle whispers, told her heart.

KING.
No more, no more. She was a queen of queens.
I lov'd her truly. She has ever liv'd
An unexampled wife. I'll go and walk.
I'll think of what you say, and if my mind
Finds nothing to disturb it, come again
And act as you advise me.

(Exit.)
SIR THOMAS.
Have I quench'd
The furious flame! May it be quench'd for ever.
I'll stay and watch it. If it mounts again
'Twill be more vehement for this repulse;
Like the smith's forge, that glows with double heat
Upon its sooty master, often dash'd
With watery allayment. Let it mount.
Vigorous reason may again subdue it.
Hush! some one enters.
(Enter Norfolk.)
Seeks your grace the king?
He's just withdrawn.

NORFOLK.
No, Sir, I come to you.
Sent by my Lady More, who waits without,
And begs admittance to you, out of breath,
And almost spent from her abundant haste
To bring you evil news. See, where she comes.
(Exit Norfolk.)

Enter Lady More.
SIR THOMAS.
My Lady, what disturbs you?

LADY MORE.
Give me leave
To pause one moment, and expect to hear
News that will make your heart ach.

SIR THOMAS.
Speak it quickly.
Are all my daughters well? how does my son?
Who's ill? Sir John? Marg'ret?

LADY MORE.
A sudden fire
Has burnt down all your barns, and half your house.

SIR THOMAS.
God's will be done. And is there nothing left?

LADY MORE.
No, not a straw. Your corn is all consum'd.
There's not provision for another day.

SIR THOMAS.
Part of my house too burnt? Say not the room
In which I kept my papers.

LADY MORE.
Yes, that room,
And the two rooms adjoining.

SIR THOMAS.
Worse and worse.
No lives were lost?

LADY MORE.
No, none.

SIR THOMAS.
And no one hurt?

LADY MORE.
None that I hear of.

SIR THOMAS.
Where did it begin?

LADY MORE.
In one of your own barns.

SIR THOMAS.
And from what cause?

LADY MORE.
The negligence of your next neighbour's servant,
As is supposed; who came to borrow straw,
And was too little careful of his light.
His master's barns were burnt as well as yours.

SIR THOMAS.
Poor man! he could but ill afford the loss.
He has eight children and a heavy rent.

LADY MORE.
What shall we do? The workmen must be sent for.
Our house is open both to thieves and weather.
We must be saving, and procure a purse
To reinstate ourselves. Shall I dismiss
Some of the servants? Tell me.

SIR THOMAS.
Let them find
New masters if they can. If they return
Still unprovided, I'll maintain them all.
Discharge none suddenly. 'Tis a hard lot
To be turn'd loose upon a vicious world
With neither oars nor anchor. Such a sea
Might shipwreck honesty tho' built of oak.
Go to your neighbour and enquire his loss.
Give him all comfort, tell him not to fear,
I will repair his fortunes to the full.

LADY MORE.
Surely, Sir Thomas, you forget yourself.
Remember Charity first feeds her own.

SIR THOMAS.
My Lady, I'm resolv'd that no poor neighbour
Shall suffer for the loss that humbles me,
Tho' it reduce me to a crust of bread.
Do as I bid you. Make the poor man happy,
And be yourselves contented. Go to church
You and your family. Be truly thankful
Life is still left us, and enough to live on.
We shall be richer when it pleases God.
Go and be cheerful. I am nothing sad.
As soon as I have begg'd the king's permission,
I'll come and give thanks with you.
(Exit Lady More.)
Such is life.
Full of strange casualties which overset
E'en in an instant the proud work of years.
Now, could I argue with the Atheist's skill,
And lie to my own mind, till it believ'd
All things that happen are the work of chance,
I should apply the pistol to my ear,
And die the dupe of cowardly persuasion.
For I am poor indeed. My papers burnt
Rob me of more than human heart can think,
More than my family shall ever know.
What have I but my places, which depend
Upon the favour of a fickle king,
Whom I this moment anger? Let it be,
If I must fall, the will of Heav'n be done.

(Exit.)
SCENE changes to the Gardens.
Enter Anne Bullen alone.
I wonder if Sir Thomas and the King
Be parted yet. It was a knotty point
That needed such discussion. Oh! I see
Sir Thomas at this moment takes his leave.
The King has spied me, and is hither coming.
Now must I urge him, bring what news he will,
To put a sudden period to my cause,
And make me queen, or leave me as I am.
(Enter the King.)
Your majesty looks sad. I fear Sir Thomas
Brought you no welcome counsel.

KING.
Welcome counsel?
No, he has strain'd the sinews of his wit
Fighting against me. For the wretched widow
He pour'd out all the honey of persuasion—
And 'faith she was an angel.

ANNE.
Sir, adieu.

KING.
Nay, nay, be patient. Tho' he mov'd me much,
I am not conquer'd. I have scruples still.
Now let hear my lovely Bullen plead.
Tell me, dear Anne, what course shall I pursue,
To give content to my distracted mind?

ANNE.
What have kings done before you? Hannibal,
When the strong Alp oppos'd him, hew'd his way;
He fought with and subdued the stubborn rock,
And tumbled his proud head into the vale.

KING.
What mean you, Anne? Speak plain.

ANNE.
Were I a king,
And my desires as laudable as your's,
My kingdom's safety, my domestic peace,
All on one wise and proper act depending,
I'd do that act, tho' to accomplish it
I pav'd my way with twenty thousand heads.

KING.
And so will I—'sblood, girl, thou hast a spirit
Stout as an Amazon's.

ANNE.
Our ancient kings,
When did they halt and quit the great design,
Awed by remonstrance? Had a subject dar'd
To rule your ancestors as some rule you,
What had he paid?

KING.
The forfeit of his head.

ANNE.
And not the forfeit of his head alone,
But his estates. O Sir, you are too cool,
Too calm and patient with these meddling fools.
And, tho' it is an office of much hazard,
I must inform you, you are much deceiv'd
In those who counsel you—remove them from you.

KING.
What! shall I part with More?

ANNE.
And part for ever.
Send him to heav'n.

KING.
Sweet Anne you counsel ill.
It were a blot that would for ever stain
The page of story, to be so severe
To one so excellent. He has a name
In ev'ry corner of the globe, at home
Lov'd for his virtues, and esteem'd abroad
For his great learning, judgment and politeness.
Besides the anger of an English King
Is fenc'd about with forty thousand checks.
He cannot sacrifice his bitterest foe
Without attainder and a bill of wrongs,
To be allow'd him by the jealous lords
And ever factious commons.

ANNE.
Let such bill
Be mov'd and pass'd. It cannot be rejected.
The houses both look up with longing eyes
Eager to serve you. Are there not in each
Of protestants and papists equal halves;
Fearful the one lest you desert the pope,
The other hopeful of a speedy change,
And therefore both obsequious? Trust me, Sir,
The Bey or Sultan has not now a will
More absolute than yours.

KING.
Ay but sweet Anne,
More is an angel in my peoples eyes,
And to oppress him in the adverse hour
Were doubly odious. He has lost by fire
All he possess'd. His buildings are all burnt,
His papers and the profits of his land,
Nor ev'n his house itself preserv'd entire.

ANNE.
Then win him with a bribe. For he has wants
Whose threatning aspect would the stoutest virtue
Stare out of countenance. His family
He loves and feeds, and keeps no sparing house,
Lib'ral to all who seek him, friends and foes.
Besides he has a hand for ever open
To whining beggary, and alms on alms
Lavishly squanders.

KING.
But what bribe so great
Shall buy him to our purpose?

ANNE.
Honour, honour.
And with that honour its appendage wealth.
Advance him to the steeple-top of favour,
And tell him for that favour he must speak
The courtiers language, and read nought amiss.
There is a man that serves your majesty
Whose place he well might fill—a haughty priest
Hated by all your people, and averse
Now at the last to his good master's pleasure,
Tho' he has fed him with a liberal hand
For almost twenty years.

KING.
What, Wolsey?

ANNE.
Yes.
He who torments your people with exactions,
Screwing the pence from the lean peasant's hand,
But yielding nothing from his proper purse,
Tho' richly able. He who like a gulf
Swallows preferment, and still thirsts for more.
Prime minister, Lord Chancellor, of York
Arch-bishop, Bishop of Winchester and Durham,
Legate and Cardinal, administrator
Of Bath and Wells, large pensioner withal
Of Charles and Francis. He who like a leech
Sucks from the houses of religious monks
Their whole subsistence, with the modest plea
To found you colleges for wit and learning,
The rather building for himself alive
Imperial palaces, and when deceas'd
Eternal monuments.

KING.
I do believe it—
Yet in the will he open'd when I chid him,
He shew'd me that to me he had bequeath'd
All his possessions. To confirm his word
He gave me instantly this Hampton Court,
Built as he said, on purpose to present me.

ANNE.
So when the thief has stol'n into the house,
He pats the quiet mastiff on the head,
And feeds him bountifully from his wallet.
He by the bribe seduc'd stands by and fawns
And suffers the sly villain undisturb'd,
To reimburse him with his master's gold.
Think you he means to make the king his heir?
I dare be sworn he glories in his heart
To see you so unwary, while he strips
Your family the kingdom of its fleece.
What is his view but to secure his children
Born out of wedlock, maintenance and homes;
To have a thousand scholars chanting mass
And singing requiems to his guilty soul?

KING.
'Faith you have hit it. Tell me more, my girl.
I do believe that overweening priest
Abuses my protection. I remember
Many unwarrantable acts he did.
Not long ago he sent away dispatches
Without my knowledge to the court of Spain,
Commanding Clarenceux my herald there
To threaten Charles with war—nay, to declare it.

ANNE.
'Twas one of many his audacious deeds
That call for chastisement. He plays the prince
In word and purpose, with amazing pride
Treating your subjects as if he were king
And you his minister. The house of lords
Abhor him as the plague, because they saw
The rights of Peerage almost crush'd to death
In the destruction of poor Buckingham.
The commons hate him for his forward tongue,
Officiously presuming in their house
To dictate their proceedings; and because,
Too proud to ask their leave to levy money,
He has oppress'd the nation more than once
With warrants of exaction.

KING.
I remember.
He rais'd an insurrection in the city,
Not long ago, by such illegal means.

ANNE.
And laid the blame upon your royal self.
He has the art of soothing, and transfers
At least one half of the vex'd people's hate
Upon your majesty.

KING.
Ungrateful cur!
I'll strip him of his honours, turn him out
As naked as he came, and whip him home
To play the tyrant in his native Ipswich.

ANNE.
Believe me, Sir, you cannot find the deed
Would raise you higher in your peoples love.
He has long liv'd by slaughter of your flock.
To you their shepherd they look up with hope.
If you protect them from his bloody knife
And ever busy shears, about your throne
They will assemble with unfeign'd attachment,
Crowding to serve you with their lives and fleeces.
Protect them not, but let him still prevail,
And they shall hate you with supreme disgust
As they hate him.

KING.
Thou speastest reason, Anne.
Would all my counsellors were wise as thou art.

ANNE.
Suppose then you dismiss this money'd priest.
Observe how coldly your divorce proceeds.
Is it not Wolsey's fault; His lips are shut—
He countenances nothing, but resolves
To cross by silence what he dares not thwart
By open opposition. He has hate,
How kindled I know not, to me and mine.
He envies me your majesty's regard,
And trusts he can oppose substantial bars
To all your hopes and mine.

KING.
But by the Lord
We'll disappoint him. Shall he out to-day?

ANNE.
Mark its expedience. The great seal revok'd
May purchase More. He cannot be your foe,
And plead against you, bought at such a price.
Send the proud Cardinal to die at York,
Stript of preferment; or if cause appear
Arrest him of high treason. Such an act
Will make your people love you, and besides,
Fill your drain'd coffers with the Card'nal's wealth.
More will be satisfied, your queen divorc'd,
And all run smoothly as your heart can wish.
As for the pope, his menaces are wind.
Regard him not. Your kingdom is your own,
And you the head supreme of church and state.
Your people curse the tyranny of Rome,
Made wise by study. They will gladly join you,
Defy the usurpation of the church,
And cast away its yoke.

KING.
Dear, lovely girl,
Thou art an angel, and hast fill'd my ear
With doctrine sweeter than the poet's song.
Be thou my privy council. From thy lips
Give me sweet kisses for my daily fare,
And make me wise and happy. Come, you rogue,
Indulge me once again. Now I am ready.
I'll send this instant, and command that priest
To yield me the great seal, and hence for York.
I will not see him, for his artful tongue
May move me to compassion. He shall down,
I swear he shall, and More shall be exalted.

(Exeunt.)
SCENE changes to Sir Thomas's Library.
Sir Thomas and Lady More alone at a Table.
LADY MORE.
Well, so much for repairs, so much for grain,
So much for the provision of your house,
And all together will amount to so much.
Look at the sum. I think it now exceeds
All we can raise. And will you still persist
Your neighbour shall lose nothing?

SIR THOMAS.
Not a doit.
My Lady, if I live upon a heath,
That honest man shall be no loser by me.
I'll first repair his loss, and then my own.
He has no friend at court, nor any place
Whose profits may redeem him out of want.
He has work'd hard, and yet could barely live,
Feeding so many little mouths at home,
And forc'd to pay a more than equal rent
To an unthrifty and oppressive landlord.
He never ask'd for all the pains he takes
More than his wants might challenge, food and raiment,
And those he shall have.

(Enter a Servant.)
SERVANT.
Sir, the Duke of Norfolk
Wishes to see you.

SIR THOMAS.
Pray him to walk in.
(Exit Servant.)
My Lady, take the papers and be gone.
(Exit Lady More.)
(Enter Norfolk.)
Your grace is welcome.

NORFOLK.
Sir, I trust I am,
For I am come the messenger of news
Grateful to all who hear it. It has pleas'd
Our gracious sov'reign to remove at last
His odious minister the Cardinal.
Myself was one of those commission'd by him
To make demand of the great seal, from which
He parted with reluctance; not like me,
Who thus resign it with a cheerful heart,
To one who merits like Sir Thomas More;
Happy to hail him, at the king's command,
England's Lord Chancellor.

SIR THOMAS.
Your grace mistakes.
Is Wolsey fall'n?

NORFOLK.
He is, and boistrous joy
Is shouting at his ruin. All the streets
Re-echo with hazzas, God save the king,
And may he live for ever. Not a soul,
But bellows extacy from leathern lungs,
And with exertion sets his face on fire.
At sight of me they paus'd, and stood to hear,
Till I had told them what my message was
To their good friend Sir Thomas. At your name
Again they bellow'd, lifted high their hands,
And wav'd their hats; with such a thund'ring shout
Assailing my poor ears, as made them ring
Even to Chelsea, and has so confus'd them
They are scarce yet recover'd.

SIR THOMAS.
Sure your grace
Has, in your hurry thro' the public streets,
Misconstrued what his majesty commanded.
It cannot be to me he gives the seal.
I am a layman, of no noble house,
Impeded with a family of children.
'Tis usual to bestow it on divines
And men of learning. Let me pray your grace
To pause awhile, and recollect yourself.

NORFOLK.
Sir Thomas, I have harbour'd no mistake.
You are the man to whom the king dispatch'd me.
To you he order'd me to give this seal,
And say withal, it was no other cause
Mov'd him to grant it, but your well-known worth
And great sufficiency, which overtops
All that himself could wish, his people hope.
You must repair as quickly as you can
To Westminster, and meet us in the Hall;
Thence to be led by Suffolk and myself
Into the Star-chamber to take your seat.
(Exit Norfolk.)

SIR THOMAS.
I will obey your grace. So Wolsey's down,
And on the ruin of his ancient foe
More is compell'd to rise. He was a man
Of vast abilities, and made his king
The dread and envy of the farthest world.
How shall I fill his seat? My little light
Will be to his but as the taper's ray,
Which, while the sun was up, was scarce discern'd,
And had but feeble glory when it sunk.
I would his majesty had sought elsewhere
And found an abler man. But since on me
He piles the load of honour, I receive it,
Grateful to Providence, which thus supports
My almost ruin'd house. I'll see the man
Restor'd to all he lost, tell the good news
To old Sir John and my dejected children,
And then away for Westminster with speed.

(Exit.)
SCENE changes to Hampton Court.
Enter the King meeting Anne Bullen.
KING.
Ah! my sweet Anne, where have you hid yourself?
You rogue, I bring you news will make your heart
Grow riotous with joy.

ANNE.
What news, dread Sir.

KING.
The Cardinals are routed. I've sent one
Smarting with insult to my Lord the Pope.
The other is depriv'd and gone to Esher
Till further orders reach him, then to York.
The peers have found him guilty. Here you rogue,
Here is an invent'ry of all he had,
The total sum of his ill-gotten wealth,
And 'tis all mine. I've sent the seal to More.
More has accepted it. Within the hour
I shall expect him here to give me thanks,
And then I'll urge him to approve my cause.
And sure he will approve it, for look here,
Look here, my jewel, here are the opinions
Of all the Universities in Europe,
And all are in my favour. I shall yet
Defeat the arts of that o'er-bearing Pope,
Live like a Christian blameless, and enjoy
Peace and my lovely Bullen. Come, a kiss.
My news deserves it. Hark! what noise was that?

(Enter Norfolk.)
NORFOLK.
Sir Thomas More waits on your majesty.

KING.
He's welcome. Shew him in. Dear Anne retire.
(Exeunt Norfolk one way and Anne another.)
(Enter Sir Thomas.)
Sir Thomas, I have long'd to see you.

SIR THOMAS.
And I too
Have long'd to see the gracious king I serve,
To thank him for his goodness. With warm heart
I bless him for this instance of his love,
Which once more lifts me from distress and want
To wealth and plenty. I could only wish
Your majesty had found an abler servant
In him whom you thus honour.

KING.
Abler servants
We do not search for, and we cannot find.
Sir Thomas, I have done what I approve,
And what your merits and domestic wants
Demanded at my hands. All that I ask
In recompence of the regard I shew you
Is your advice.

SIR THOMAS.
Which I am bound to give,
Poor as it is, with willingness and truth,
Whenever ask'd.

KING.
Ay, give it me with truth.
Now I consult you. Have you thought at all
Of me and my divorce? What must I do?

SIR THOMAS.
Dread Sir, excuse me. 'Tis a subtle point.
I have been all in all engag'd at home,
Since I departed, in my own concerns.
I have not weigh'd the matter, much disturb'd
By my late sudden losses. Let me pray you,
Consult your other counsellors. My mind
Is all derang'd; and I had never wit
To comprehend the question you propose
With clearness and precision.

KING.
Look you here.
Here are the testimonies of the Church,
Of all the Universities in Europe,
Of Oxford, Cambridge, Angiers, Bourges, Orleans,
Thoulouse, Bologna, Padua, and Ferrara;
And all agree 'twas contrary to law
To marry Cath'rine, and the dispensation
Granted by Julius must be deem'd invalid.
What think you of all this?

SIR THOMAS.
The Church is wise.
The Church is learned. The Church may be right.
Perhaps it is so. Leaning on the Church,
Your majesty proceeds on firm support.
Why need you urge an individual voice?

KING.
Because you have a name in Church and State,
And all my people and the world at large
Look up to you, deeming your judgment truth
And candid equity. I cannot thrive
And be divorc'd with that applause I wish,
While you oppose me. To your books again.
Read with attention and a hearty wish
To serve your king. I must not be denied
Your vote and countenance, when the joint voice
Of total Christendom confirms my scruples.
Go, and be busy, and your mind convinc'd,
Seek us again, and be the man we love.

(Exit.)
Sir Thomas stands awhile in astonishment.
(Enter Norfolk.)
NORFOLK.
Sir Thomas, an express is just arriv'd,
Who brings intelligence that old Sir John,
Your worth father, is—

SIR THOMAS.
Not dead?

NORFOLK.
Yes, dead.

SIR THOMAS.
Peace to his soul, he could not have expir'd
At a more happy season.

NORFOLK.
So I think.

SIR THOMAS.
Where is the messenger? Conduct me to him.

(Exeunt.)