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Is the Queen deliver'd?
I guess thy meffage.
King. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen.
Before the Council-chamber.
Cran. I hope I'm not too late; and yet the Gentle
That was fent to me from the council, pray'd me
D. Keep. Yes, my Lord;
D. Keep. Your Grace muft wait till you be call'd for.
Butts. This is a piece of malice. I am glad
Cran. 'Tis Butts,
The King's phyfician. As he pafs'd along,
Pray heav'n, he found not my difgrace! for certain,
This is of purpose laid by fome that hate me, (God turn their hearts! I never fought their malice). To quench mine honour: they would fhame to make Wait elfe at door: a fellow counsellor, [me, "Mong boys, and grooms, and lackeys! but their pleaMu be fulfill d, and I attend with patience. [fures
Enter the King, and Butts, at a window above.
Butts. I'll fhew your Grace the strangest sight— King. What's that, Butts ?
Butts. I think your Highnefs faw this many a day. King. Body o' me where is it?
Butts. There, my Lord.
The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury,
King. Ha! 'tis he indeed.
Is this the honour they do one another?
SCENE V The council.
A council-table brought in, with chairs and ftools, and placed under the ftate. Enter Lord Chancellor, places bimfelf at the upper end of the table on the left hand, a feat being left void above him, as for the Archbishop of Canterbury. Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, Surry, Lord Chamberlain, and Gardiner, feat themfelves in order on each fide, Cromwell at the lower end, as Secretary.
Chan. Speak to the bufinefs, Mr. Secretary: Why are we met in council?
Crom. Pleafe your Honours,
The caufe concerns his Grace of Canterbury..
Nor. Who waits there?
D. Keep. Without, my noble Lords?
D. Keep. My Lord Archbishop ; And has done half an hour to attend your pleafures. Chan. Let him come in.
D. Keep. Your Grace may enter now.
[Cranmer approaches the council-table. Chan. My good Lord Archbishop, I'm very forry To fit here at this prefent, and behold That chair ftand empty. But we all are men In our own natures frail, and capable Of frailty, few are angels: from which frailty, And want of wisdom, you that beft fhould teach us, Have misdemean'd yourself, and not a little; Tow'rd the King firft, and then his laws, in filling The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains (For fo we are inform'd), with new opinions Divers and dangerous, which are herefies; And not reform'd, may prove pernicious.
Gard. Which reformation must be sudden too,
To one man's honour) this contagious fickness,
Cran. My good Lords, hitherto, in all the progrefs Both of my life and office, I have labour'd (And with no little ftudy) that my teaching, And the ftrong courfe of my authority, Might go one way, and fafely; and the end Was ever to do well: nor is there living (I fpeak it with a fingle heart, my Lords) A man that more detefts, more stirs against, (Both in his private confcience and his place), Defacers of the public peace, than I do.
Pray Heav'n, the King may never find a heart
Be what they will, may ftand forth face to face,
Suf Nay, my Lord,
That cannot be; you are a counsellor,
And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.
Gard. My Lord, because we've bufinefs of more
We will be fhort wi' you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure,
Cran. Ay, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you,
Gard. My Lord, my Lord, you are a fectary, That's the plain truth; your painted glofs difcovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness. Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little, By your good favour too fharp; men fo noble, However faulty, yet fhould find respect For what they have been. 'Tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
Gard Good Mr. Secretary,
I cry your Honour mercy; you may, worft
Crom. Why, my Lord?
Gard. Do not I know you for a favourer
Of this new fect! ye are not found.
Gard. Not found, I fay.
Crom. Would you were half so honest! Men's pray'rs then would feek you, not their fears. Gard. I fhall remember this bold language.
Remember your bold life too.
Gard. I've done.
Crom. And I.
Cham. Then thus for you my Lord: it ftands agreed, I take it by all voices, that forthwith You be convey'd to th' Tower a prifoner; There to remain, till the King's further pleasure Be known unto us. Are ye all agreed, Lords?
All. We are.
Cran. Is there no other way of mercy,
But I must needs to th' Tower, my Lords?
Would you expect? you're strangely troublesome :
Cran. For me?
Muft I go like a traitor then?
And fee him fafe i' th' Tower.
Cran. Stay, good my Lords,
I have a little yet to fay. Look there, Lords;
To a moft noble judge, the King my matter.
Sur. 'Tis no counterfeit.
Suf. 'Tis his right ring, by Heav'n. I told ye all, When we firft put this dang'rous tone a-rowling, 'Twould fall upon ourselves.
Nor. D'you think, my Lords,
The King will fuffer but the little finger