Cap.

By Heaven, I will,

Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

Kath. I thank you, honest lord.

me

In all humility unto his highness:

Remember

Say to him, his long trouble now is passing
Out of this world; tell him, in death I blessed

him,

For so I will.-Mine eyes grow dim.-Farewell,
My lord.-Griffith, farewell.-Nay, Patience,
You must not leave me yet: I must to bed;
Call in more women.- -When I am dead, good
wench,

Let me be used with honour: strew me over

With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,
Then lay me forth: although unqueened, yet like
A Queen, and daughter to a King, inter me.
I can no more.- [Exeunt. leading KATHARINE

ACT V.

SCENE I.-London. A Gallery in the Palace.

Enter GARDINER, Bishop of WINCHESTER, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir THOMAS LOVELL.

Gar. It's one o'clock, boy, is 't not?

Boy.

It hath struck.

Gar. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us

To waste these times.-Good hour of night, Sir Thomas:

Whither so late?

Lov.

Came you from the King, my lord?

Gar. I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk.

Lov.

Before he

I must to him too,

What's the

go to bed. I'll take my leave.

Gar. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell.

matter?

It seems you are in haste: an if there be

No great offence belongs to 't, give your friend

Some touch of your late business. Affairs that

walk

As they say spirits do-at midnight, have

In them a wilder nature than the business

That seeks despatch by day.

Lov.

My lord, I love you,

The Queen's in

And durst commend a secret to your ear
Much weightier than this work.

labour,

They say, in great extremity; and feared,

She 'll with the labour end.

Gar.

The fruit she goes with

I pray for heartily that it may find

Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,

I wish it grubbed up now.

Lov.

Methinks, I could

Cry the Amen; and yet my conscience says
She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does
Deserve our better wishes.

Gar.

But, sir, sir,

Hear me, Sir Thomas: you are a gentleman
Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;
And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well,

'T will not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take 't of me,
Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,
Sleep in their graves.

Lov.

Now, sir, you speak of two

The most remarked i' the kingdom. As for Crom

well,

Beside that of the jewel-house, he's made Master O'the Rolls, and the King's Secretary; further, sir,

Stands in the gap and trade of more preferments, With which the time will load him. The Arch

bishop

Is the King's hand and tongue; and who dare

speak

One syllable against him?

Gar.

Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,

There are that dare; and I myself have ventured To speak my mind of him: and, indeed, this

day,

Sir, I may tell it you, I think,—I have

Incensed the lords o' the council, that he is—
For so I know he is, they know he is-

A most arch heretic, a pestilence

That does infect the land: with which they moved
Have broken with the King; who hath so far
Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace
And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs
Our reasons laid before him; hath commanded,
To-morrow morning to the council-board

He be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas,
And we must root him out. From your affairs
I hinder you too long: good night, Sir Thomas.
Lov. Many good nights, my lord. I rest your
servant. [Exeunt GARDINER and Page.

As LOVELL is going out, enter the KING and the Duke of SUFFOLK.

K. Hen. Charles, I will play no more to-night: My mind 's not on 't; you are too hard for me. Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before. K. Hen. But little, Charles;

Nor shall not when my fancy's on my play.

Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news?
Lov. I could not personally deliver to her
What you commanded me, but by her woman
I sent your message; who returned her thanks
In the great'st humbleness, and desired your high-

ness

Most heartily to pray for her.

To

K. Hen.

What say'st thou ? Ha!

pray for her? What is she crying out!

Lov. So said her woman; and that her suffer

ance made

Almost each pang a death.

K. Hen.

Alas, good lady!