PROLOGUE.

I COME no more to make you laugh; things now
That bear a weighty and a serious brow,

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,
Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,
We now present. Those that can pity, here
May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;
The subject will deserve it. Such as give
Their money out of hope, they may believe,
May here find truth too. Those that come to see
Only a show or two, and so agree,

The play may pass; if they be still and willing,
I'll undertake, may see away their shilling
Richly in two short hours. Only they,
That come to hear a merry, bawdy play,
A noise of targets; or to see a fellow

In a long motley coat, guarded* with yellow,
Will be deceived: for, gentle hearers, know,
To rank our chosen truth with such a show
As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting

Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring
(To make that only true we now intend†,)
Will leave us never an understanding friend.
Therefore, for goodness' sake, and as you are known
The first and happiest hearers of the town,
Be sad, as we would make ye: Think, ye see
The very persons of our noble story,

As they were living; think, you see them great,
And follow'd with the general throng, and sweat,
Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see
How soon this mightiness meets misery!
And, if you can be merry then, I'll say,
A man may weep upon his wedding-day.

KING HENRY VIII.

ACT I.

SCENE I. London.

An antechamber in the

Palace.

Enter the Duke of Norfolk, at one door; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Lord Abergavenny.

Buck. GooD-morrow, and well met. and well met. How have you done,

Since last we saw in France?

Nor.

I thank your grace:

Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer
Of what I saw there.

Buck.

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 Arde.

Nor. '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 thron'd ones could have weigh'd

Such a compounded one?

Buck.

All the whole time

I was my chamber's prisoner.

* Henry VIII. and Francis I. king of France.

Nor.

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 it's: 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 cherubims, all gilt: the madams too,
Not us'd to toil, did almost sweat to bear
The pride upon them, that their very labour
Was to them as a painting: now this mask
Was cry'd incomparable; and the ensuing night
Made it a fool, and beggar. The two kings,
Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,
As presence did present them; him in eye,
Still him in praise: and, being present both,
'Twas said, they saw but one; and no discerner
Durst wag his tongue in censure†. When these suns
(For so they phrase them,) by their heralds chal-
leng'd

The noble spirits to arms, they did perform

Beyond thought's compass; that former fabulous

story,

Being now seen possible enough, got credit,
That Bevist was believ'd.

Buck.

O, you go far.
Nor. As I belong to worship, and affect
In honour honesty, the tract of every thing
Would by a good discourser lose some life,

Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal;
To the disposing of it, nought rebell'd,
Order gave each thing view; the office did
Distinctly his full function.

Buck.

Who did guide,

I mean, who set the body and the limbs

* Glittering, shining.

In opinion, which was most noble.

Sir Bevis, an old romance.

Of this great sport together, as you guess?
Nor. One, certes*, that promises no element+
In such a business.

Buck.

I pray you, who, my lord? Nor. All this was order'd by the good discretion Of the right reverend cardinal of York.

Buck. The devil speed him! no man's pie is free'd From his ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce‡ vanities? I wonder, That such a keech§ can with his very bulk Take up the rays o'the beneficial sun, And keep it from the earth.

Surely, sir,

Nor.
There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends:
For, being not propp'd by ancestry (whose grace
Chalks successors their way,) nor call'd upon
For high feats done to the crown; neither allied
To eminent assistants, but, spider-like,

Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note,
The force of his own merit makes his way;
A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys
A place next to the king.

I cannot tell

Aber. What heaven hath given him, let some graver eye Pierce into that; but I can see his pride

Peep through each part of him: whence has he that? If not from hell, the devil is a niggard;

Or has given all before, and he begins

A new hell in himself.

Buck.

Why the devil,

Upon this French going-out, took he upon him,
Without the privity o'the king, to appoint
Who should attend on him? He makes up the file
Of all the gentry; for the most part such

Too, whom as great a charge as little honour
He meant to lay upon and his own letter¶,
The honourable board of council out,

:

Must fetch him in he papers.

* Certainly.

# List.

+ Practice.

Proud.

§ Lump of fat.

¶ Sets down in his letter without consulting the council.