Enter Door-Keeper.

D. Keep. Yes, my Lord;

But

yet

I cannot help you.

Cran. Why?

D. Keep. Your Grace muft wait, 'till you be call'd for.
Enter Doctor Butts.

Cran. So.

Butts. This is a piece of malice: I am glad,
I came this way fo happily. The King
Shall understand it prefently.

Cran. 'Tis Butts,

The King's phyfician; as he paft along,
How earneftly he caft his eyes upon me!

[Exit Butts.

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 me
Wait elfe at door: a fellow counsellor,

'Mong boys and grooms and lackeys! but their pleafures Muft be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience.

Enter the King and Butts, at a window above.
Butts. I'll fhew your Grace the ftrangeft fight-
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,
Who holds his ftate at door 'mong pursevants,
Pages, and foot-bays.

King. Ha! 'tis he, indeed.

Is this the honour they do one another?
"Tis well, there's one above 'em yet. I thought,
They'd parted fo much honesty among 'em,
At least, good manners; as not thus to fuffer
A man of his place, and fo near our favour,
To dance attendance on their Lordships pleafures;
And at the door too, like a poft with packets.
By holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery;

Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close.
We shall hear more anon.

R 2

SCENE, the Council.

A council-table brought in with chairs and ftools, and placed under the ftate. Enter Lord Chancellor, places himself 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, Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, and Gardiner, feat themselves in order on each fide. Cromwel at the lower end, as Secretary.

Peak to the business, Mr. Secretary; (30)

Chan. Spea

Why are we met in council ?

Crom. Please your Honours,

The cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury.
Gard. Has he had knowledge of it?

Crom. Yes.

Nor. Who waits there?

D. Keep. Without, my noble Lords?
Gard. Yes.

D. Keep. My Lord Arch-bishop;

And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures.

Chan. Let him come in.

D. Keep. Your Grace may enter now.

[Cranmer approaches the council-table. Chan. My good Lord Arch-bishop, 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:

(30) Chan. Speak to the bufinefs,] This Lord Chancellor, tho' a character, has hitherto had no place in the Dramatis Perfona. In the laft fcene of the fourth act, we heard, that Sir Thomas Moor was appointed Lord Chancellor; but it is not he, whom the poet here introduces. Wolfey, by command, deliver'd up the feals on the 18th of November 1529; on the 25th of the fame month, they were deliver'd to Sir Thomas Moor, who furrender'd them on the 16th of May, 1532. Now the conclufion of this fcene taking notice of Queen Elizabeth's birth, (which brings it down to the Year 1534) Sir Thomas Audlie muft neceffarily be our poet's Chancellor ; who fucceeded Sir Thomas Moor, and held the feals many years.

3

Toward

Toward the King first, 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 dang'rous, which are herefies;
And, not reform'd, may prove pernicious.

Gard. Which reformation must be fudden too,
My noble Lords; for thofe, that tame wild horfes,
Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle;
But ftop their mouths with ftubborn bits, and fpur 'em,
'Till they obey the manage. If we fuffer

(Out of our eafinefs and childish pity

To one man's honour) this contagious fickness,
Farewel all phyfick: and what follows then?
Commotions, uproars, with a gen❜ral taint
Of the whole ftate: as of late days our neighbours
The upper Germany can dearly witness,
Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

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 speak it with a fingle heart, my Lords)
A man that more detefts, more ftirs against,
(Both in his private confcience and his place)
Defacers of the publick peace, than I do.
Pray heav'n, the King may never find a heart
With lefs allegiance in it! men, that make
Envy and crooked malice nourishment,
Dare bite the best. I do befeech your Lordships,
That, in this cafe of justice, my accufers,

Be what they will, may ftand forth face to face,
And freely urge against me.

Suf. Nay, my Lord,

That cannot be; you are a counsellor,

Ánd by that virtue no man dare accuse you.

[ment,

Gard. My Lord, because we've bufinefs of more moWe will be fhort wi'you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure, And our confent, for better tryal of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower;

R 3

Where

Where, being but a private man again,

You fhall know, many dare accufe you boldly,
More than, I fear, you are provided for.

Cran. Ay, my good Lord of Winchefter, I thank you,
You're always my good friend; if your will pass,
I fhall both find your Lordship judge and juror,
You are fo merciful. I fee your end,

'Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, Lord,
Become a church-man better than ambition:
Win ftraying fouls with modefty again,
Caft none away. That I fhall clear myself,
(Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience)
I make as little doubt, as you do confcience
In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,
But rev'rence to your calling makes me modeft.
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 Winchefter, you are a little,
By your good favour, too fharp; men so 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, worst
Of all this table, say so.

Crom. Why, my Lord?

Gard. Do not I know you for a favourer

Of this new fect? ye are not found.

Crom. Not found?

Gard. Not found, I say.

Crom. Would you were half fo honest!

Mens prayers then would feek you, not their fears..
Gard. I fhall remember this bold language.

Crom. Do.

Remember your bold life too.

Cham. This is too much;

Forbear for fhame, my Lords.
Gard. I've done.

Crom. And I.

Cham, Then thus for you, my Lord: it flands agreed

I

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.

All. We are.

Are you all agreed, Lords?

Cran. Is there no other way of mercy,

But I must needs to th' Tower, my Lords?

Gard. What other

Would you expect? you're ftrangely troublefome:
Let fome o' th' guard be ready there.

Cran. For me?

Enter the Guard.

Muft I go like a traitor then ♪

Gard. Receive him,

And fee him fafe i' th' Tower.
Cran. Stay, good my Lords,

I have a little yet to fay. Look there, Lords;
By virtue of that ring, I take my cause
Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it
To a most noble judge, the King my master.
Cham. This is the King's ring.

Sur. 'Tis no counterfeit.

Suf. 'Tis his right ring, by heav'n. I told ye all, When we first put this dang'rous ftone a rolling, 'Twould fall upon ourselves.

Nor. D' you think, my Lords,

The King will fuffer but the little finger
Of this man to be vex'd?

Cham. 'Tis now too certain.

How much more is his life in value with him?

Would I were fairly out on't.

Crom. My mind gave me,
In feeking tales and informations

Against this man, whofe honefty the devil

And his difciples only envy at,

Ye blew the fire that burns ye; now have at ye.

Enter King, frowning on them; takes his feat.

Gard. Dread Sov'reign, how much are we bound to In daily thanks, that gave us fuch a Prince;

R 4

[heav'n Not