ACT III. SCENE I. Palace at Bridewell. A Room in the Queen's Apartment. The Queen, and some of her Women, at work. Q. Kath. Take thy lute, wench: my soul grows sad with troubles; Sing, and disperse them, if thou canst: leave working. SONG. Orpheus with his lute made trees, Bow themselves, when he did sing: Hung their heads, and then lay by. Enter a Gentleman. Q. Kath. How now? Gent. An't please your grace, the two great cardinals Wait in the presence. Q. Kath. Would they speak with me? Gent. They will'd me say so, madam. Pray their graces To come near. [Exit Gent.] What can be their business With me, a poor weak woman, fallen from favour? I do not like their coming, now I think on't. They should be good men; their affairs as righteous: But all hoods make not monks. Wol. Enter WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS. Peace to your highness! Q. Kath. Your graces find me here part of a housewife; I would be all, against the worst may happen. What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords? Wol. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw Into your private chamber, we shall give you The full cause of our coming. Q. Kath. There's nothing I have done science, Speak it here; yet, o' my con Deserves a corner: 'Would, all other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! My lords, I care not (so much I am happy Above a number), if my actions Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw them, I know my life so even: If your business Out with it boldly; Truth loves open dealing. Wol. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima, Q. Kath. O, good my lord, no Latiu; I am not such a truant since my coming, As not to know the language I have liv'd in: A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious; Pray, speak in English: here are some will thank you, If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake; Believe me, she has had much wrong: Lord cardinal, The willing'st sin I ever yet committed, Noble lady, Wol. I am sorry, my integrity should breed (And service to his majesty and you) So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant. To taint that honour every good tongue blesses; Cam. Most honour'd madam, My lord of York,-out of his noble nature, His service and his counsel. Q. Kath. To betray me. [Aside. My lords, I thank you both for your good wills, Ye speak like honest men, (pray God, ye prove so!) But how to make you suddenly an answer, Your hopes and friends are infinite. Q. Kath. (Though he be grown so desperate to be honest), Cam. He's loving, and most gracious; 'twill be much Both for your honour better, and your cause; For, if the trial of the law o'ertake you, You'll part away disgrac'd. Wol. He tells you rightly. Q. Kath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruin: Is this your Christian counsel? out upon ye! Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt. Cam. Your rage mistakes us. Q. Kath. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues: The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady? I have more charity: But say, I warn'd ye; once The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. Q. Kath. Ye turn me into nothing; Woe upon ye, And all such false professors! Would ye have me (If you have any justice, any pity; If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits) Cam. Your fears are worse. Q. Kath. Have I liv'd thus long-(let me speak myself, Since virtue finds no friends),-a wife, a true one? A woman (I dare say, without vainglory), Have I, with all my full affections, Still met the king? dov'd him next heaven? obey'd him? Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him? Almost forgot my prayers to content him? And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords. Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his plea sure; And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour,-a great patience. Wol. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at. Q. Kath. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, To give up willingly that noble title Your master wed me to: nothing but death Wol. \'Pray, hear me. Q. Kath. 'Would I had never trod this English earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts, What will become of me now, wretched lady? Wol. honest, You'd feel more comfort: why should we, good lady, Upon what cause, wrong you? alas! our places, We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow them. The hearts of princes kiss obedience, So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits, |