Have ever come too fhort of my defires,
7 Yet, fill'd with my abilities; mine own Ends Have been mine fo, that evermore they pointed To th' good of your most facred person, and The profit of the state. For your great graces Heap'd upon me, poor un-deferver, I Can nothing render but allegiant thanks, My prayers to heav'n for you; my loyalty, Which ever has, and ever fhall be growing, 'Till death, that winter, kill it. King. Fairly answer'd;
A loyal and obedient fubject is Therein illustrated; the honour of it Does pay the act of it, as o'th' contrary, The foulness is the punishment. I prefume, That as my hand has open'd bounty to you, My heart dropp'd love, my pow'r rain'd honour more On you, than any; fo your hand and heart, Your brain, and every function of your power, Should notwithstanding that your bond of Duty, As 'twere in love's particular, be more
To me, your friend, than any.
That for your Highness' good I ever labour'd, More than mine own; that am I, have been, will be:
Though all the world fhould crack their duty to you, And throw it from their foul; though perils did Abound, as thick as thought could make 'em, and Appear in forms more horrid; yet my duty, As doth a rock againft the chiding flood, Should the approach of this wild river break, And ftand unfhaken yours.
King. 'Tis nobly spoken;
Take notice, Lords, he has a loyal breast,
For you have seen him open't.
Read o'er this, [Giving him papers.
And, after, this; and then to breakfast, with
What appetite you may.
[Exit King, frowning upon Cardinal Wolfey; the Nobles throng after him, whispering and fmiling.
Wol. What should this mean ?
What fudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap'd from his eyes. So looks the chafed lion Upon the daring huntfman that has gall'd him, Then makes him nothing. I muft read this paper: I fear, the ftory of his anger-'tis fo
This paper has undone me-'tis th' account Of all that world of wealth I've drawn together For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the Popedom, And fee my friends in Rome. friends in Rome. O negligence, Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil Made me put this main fecret in the packet I fent the King? Is there no way to cure this? No new device to beat this from his brains? I know, 'twill ftir him ftrongly; yet I know A way, if it take right, in fpight of fortune Will bring me off again. What's this-To the Pope? The letter, as I live, with all the business
I writ to's Holinefs. Nay, then farewel;
I've touch'd the highest point of all my Greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my fetting. I fhall fall, Like a bright exhalation in the evening; And no man see me more.
Enter to Wolfey, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.
Nor. Hear the King's pleafure, Cardinal, who commands you
To render up the Great Seal, presently Into our hands, and to confine yourself To Afher-boufe, my Lord of Winchester's, 'Till you hear further from his Highness. Wol. Stay.
Where's your commiffion, Lords? words cannot carry Authority fo mighty.
Bearing the King's will from his mouth exprefly? Wol. ''Till I find more than will, or words to do it, (I mean, your malice;) know, officious Lords,
I dare, and must deny it. Now I feel Of what coarfe metal ye are moulded,Envy. How eagerly ye follow my difgrace,
As if it fed ye; and how fleek, and wanton, Y'appear in every thing may bring my ruin. Follow your envious courfes, men of malice; You've christian warrant for 'em, and, no doubt, In time will find their fit rewards. That Seal, You afk with fuch a violence, the King,
Mine and your mafter, with his own hand gave me, Bad me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life; and, to confirm his goodness, Ty'd it by letters patent. Now, who'll take it? Sur. The King, that gave it.
Wol. It must be himself then. Sur. Thou'rt a proud traitor, priest. Wol. Proud Lord, thou lieft; Within these forty hours Surrey durft better Have burnt that tongue, than faid fo. Sur. Thy ambition,
Thou scarlet fin, robb'd this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law. The heads of all thy brother Cardinals,
With thee, and all thy beft parts bound together, Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague on your policy! You fent me Deputy for Ireland,
Far from his fuccour, from the King, from all, That might have mercy on the fault, thou gav'ft him, Whilft your great goodnefs, out of holy pity,
Abfolv'd him with an ax.
Wol. This, and all elfe
This talking Lord can lay upon my credit, I answer, is moft falfe. The Duke by law
crofs 'em, &c. Wolfey, anfwering them, continues his own fpeech. 'Till I find more than will or words (I mean more than your malicious
will and words) to do it; that is, to carry authority fo mighty; I will deny to return what the King has given me.
Found his deferts. How innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His noble jury and foul caufe can witness. If I lov'd many words, Lord, I fhould tell you, You have as little honefty as honour; That I, i'th' way of loyalty and truth Toward the King, my ever royal master, Dare mate a founder man than Surrey can be, And all that love his follies.
Your long coat, prieft, protects you; thou should'st
My fword i'th' life blood of thee elfe. Can ye endure to hear this arrogance? And from this fellow? if we live thus tamely, To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, Farewel, nobility; let his Grace go forward, And dare us with his cap, like larks. Wol. All goodness
Is poifon to thy ftomach.
Sur. Yes, that goodness
Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one, Into your own hands, Card'nal, by extortion; The goodness of your intercepted packets
You writ to th' Pope, against the King, your goodness, Since you provoke me fhall be most notorious. My Lord of Norfolk, as you're truly noble, As you refpect the common good, the ftate Of our defpis'd nobility, our iffues, Who, if he live, will fcarce be gentlemen; Produce the grand fum of his fins, the articles Collected from his life. I'll startle you,
* Worfe than the facring bell, when the brown wench
2 Worfe than the facring Bell,] The little bell which is rung to give notice of the Hoft approaching when it is carried in Proceffion, as alfo in other ofVOL. V.
fices of the Romish Church, is called the Sacring, or Confecration Bell; from the French Word, Sucrer.
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