University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

Queen's Cabinet, Whitehall.
Queen, Philip, Gardiner, Lords and Council.
QUEEN.
I am far from well, my lords, as you may see.
God lays a heavy hand on me. His will
Be done! I take the privilege of sickness
To meet you here, not in full parliament.
Before the coming of his Eminence
The Legate, hourly looked for, I would explain
Our exigencies.

PEMBROKE.
Without doubt your Grace
Should have full satisfaction.

QUEEN.
I would urge you
(What less shall please, but to your souls hereafter
Be of true comfort) that you reconsider
The Church's claim for spoils that you have taken—

PEMBROKE.
Your father took—

QUEEN.
Well, Sir, he took for you.

PEMBROKE.
Our swords protect the Church: our lands surrendered,
Our swords are swords of glass.

QUEEN.
Greedy—too greedy—
Are ye, my lords, of pelf. I find you, truly,
Pliant, fair-spoken: but, your mammon touched,
The lands filched from the Church, ye tap your swords,
And cry, “We part not with our abbey spoils!”

PEMBROKE.
They were fair grants, the guerdon of fair service.
Your father's gift our swords are bound to guard.

QUEEN.
So be it! I must be content, I see,
With setting good example. I devote
What to the crown pertains to foster learning,
And feed the poor.

PEMBROKE.
How then support the crown,
With an impoverished purse?

QUEEN.
Sir, I prefer
My peace of conscience to all crowns of earth.

[A discharge of ordnance without.
Enter Sir John Gage.
GAGE.
The Cardinal Legate's boat hath touched the beach.

QUEEN.
The Cardinal arrived! my dear, dear Cousin!
Go, my lord Chamberlain,—go, Sir John Gage,
And bear our greetings to his Eminence.
Let his Legantine cross be borne before him;
And all appliances of holy state
Attend his blessed footsteps. This, our King,
And we, shall welcome him on Whitehall stairs.

[Exeunt Oxford and Cecil.
PHILIP.
You are right gracious to the Cardinal.
In Spain we condescend less.

QUEEN.
Ah! you'll love him,
As I do, when familiarly you know him.

PHILIP.
I somewhat doubt it. You were sick, you said;—
Too sick to issue forth and meet your Commons.

QUEEN.
'Tis but a score of paces. I would fain
Show fitting reverence to a holy man.

PHILIP.
As you will, Madam. Ho! the pageant waits.
Her Highness' self shall usher through the gates!

[Exeunt.