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.

I must to him too,

Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave.

Gar. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell.
What's the 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 dispatch by day.

Lov.

My lord, I love you ;

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

queen 's in labour,

They say, in great extremity; and fear'd
She 'll with the labour end.

Gar.

The

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 grubb'd 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 're a gentleman Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;

And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well, "Twill 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 remark'd i' the kingdom. As for

Cromwell,

Beside that of the jewel house, is made

master

O' the rolls, and the king's secretary; further, sir,

Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,

With which the time will load him. The

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.

Enter KING and SUFFOLK.

King. Charles, I will play no more tonight;

My mind's not on 't; you are too hard for

me.

Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before. King. 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 return'd her thanks

In the great'st humbleness, and desired your

highness

Most heartily to pray for her.

King.

What say'st thou, ha?

To pray for her? what, is she crying out? Lov. So said her woman, and that her

sufferance made

Almost each pang a death.

King.

Alas, good lady!