The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state; as of late days our neighbours, The upper Germany, can dearly witness, Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

CRANMER. My good lords, hitherto in all the progress Both of my life and office, I have labour’d, And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely; and the end Was ever to do well. Nor is there living-I speak it with a single heart, my lords-A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace than I do.

Pray heaven the King may never find a heart With less allegiance in it! Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment

Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships That, in this case of justice, my accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face And freely urge against me.

SUFFOLK. Nay, my lord,

That cannot be; you are a councillor, And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.

GARDINER. My lord, because we have business of more moment, We will be short with you. ‘Tis his Highness’ pleasure And our consent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower; Where, being but a private man again, You shall know many dare accuse you boldly, More than, I fear, you are provided for.

CRANMER. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you; You are always my good friend; if your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, You are so merciful. I see your end-

‘Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition; Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt as you do conscience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me modest.

GARDINER. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary; That’s the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness.

CROMWELL. My Lord of Winchester, y’are a little, By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been; ‘tis a cruelty To load a falling man.

GARDINER. Good Master Secretary,

I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst Of all this table, say so.

CROMWELL. Why, my lord?

GARDINER. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new sect? Ye are not sound.

CROMWELL. Not sound?

GARDINER. Not sound, I say.

CROMWELL. Would you were half so honest!

Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears.

GARDINER. I shall remember this bold language.

CROMWELL. Do.

Remember your bold life too.

CHANCELLOR. This is too much;

Forbear, for shame, my lords.

GARDINER. I have done.

CROMWELL. And I.

CHANCELLOR. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You be convey’d to th’ Tower a prisoner; There to remain till the King’s further pleasure Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords?

ALL. We are.

CRANMER. Is there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to th’ Tower, my lords?

GARDINER. What other

Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome.

Let some o’ th’ guard be ready there.

Enter the guard

CRANMER. For me?

Must I go like a traitor thither?

GARDINER. Receive him,

And see him safe i’ th’ Tower.

CRANMER. Stay, good my lords,

I have a little yet to say. Look there, my 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.

CHAMBERLAIN. This is the King’s ring.

SURREY. ‘Tis no counterfeit.

SUFFOLK. ‘Tis the right ring, by heav’n. I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone arolling, ‘Twould fall upon ourselves.

NORFOLK. Do you think, my lords,

The King will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex’d?

CHAMBERLAIN. ‘Tis now too certain;

How much more is his life in value with him!

Would I were fairly out on’t!

CROMWELL. My mind gave me,

In seeking tales and informations

Against this man-whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at-Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye!

Enter the KING frowning on them; he takes his seat GARDINER. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince; Not only good and wise but most religious; One that in all obedience makes the church The chief aim of his honour and, to strengthen That holy duty, out of dear respect,

His royal self in judgment comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

KING. You were ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not To hear such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin and bare to hide offences.

To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But whatsoe’er thou tak’st me for, I’m sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody.

[To CRANMER] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest He that dares most but wag his finger at thee.

By all that’s holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

SURREY. May it please your Grace—

KING. No, sir, it does not please me.

I had thought I had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my Council; but I find none.

Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man-few of you deserve that title-This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber door? and one as great as you are?

Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye Power as he was a councillor to try him, Not as a groom. There’s some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; Which ye shall never have while I live.

CHANCELLOR. Thus far,

My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos’d concerning his imprisonment was rather-If there be faith in men-meant for his trial And fair purgation to the world, than malice, I’m sure, in me.

KING. Well, well, my lords, respect him; Take him, and use him well, he’s worthy of it.

I will say thus much for him: if a prince May be beholding to a subject,

Am for his love and service so to him.

Make me no more ado, but all embrace him; Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury, I have a suit which you must not deny me: That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism; You must be godfather, and answer for her.

CRANMER. The greatest monarch now alive may glory In such an honour; how may I deserve it, That am a poor and humble subject to you?

KING. Come, come, my lord, you’d spare your spoons. You shall have

Two noble partners with you: the old Duchess of Norfolk And Lady Marquis Dorset. Will these please you?

Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man.

GARDINER. With a true heart

And brother-love I do it.

CRANMER. And let heaven

Witness how dear I hold this confirmation.

KING. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart.

The common voice, I see, is verified

Of thee, which says thus: ‘Do my Lord of Canterbury A shrewd turn and he’s your friend for ever.’

Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long To have this young one made a Christian.

As I have made ye one, lords, one remain; So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. Exeunt

ACT V. SCENE 4.

The palace yard

Noise and tumult within. Enter PORTER and his MAN

PORTER. You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the court for Paris garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

[Within: Good master porter, I belong to th’ larder.]

PORTER. Belong to th’ gallows, and be hang’d, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to ‘em. I’ll scratch your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?

MAN. Pray, sir, be patient; ‘tis as much impossible, Unless we sweep ‘em from the door with cannons, To scatter ‘em as ‘tis to make ‘em sleep On May-day morning; which will never be.

We may as well push against Paul’s as stir ‘em.

PORTER. How got they in, and be hang’d?

MAN. Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in?

As much as one sound cudgel of four foot-You see the poor remainder-could distribute, I made no spare, sir.

PORTER. You did nothing, sir.

MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow ‘em down before me; but if I spar’d any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,

Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again; And that I would not for a cow, God save her!

[ Within: Do you hear, master porter?]

PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.

Keep the door close, sirrah.

MAN. What would you have me do?

PORTER. What should you do, but knock ‘em down by th’

dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand: here will be father, godfather, and all together.

MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us.

There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him, that rail’d upon me till her pink’d porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss’d the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out ‘Clubs!’

when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o’ th’ Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place.

At length they came to th’ broomstaff to me; I defied ‘em still; when suddenly a file of boys behind ‘em, loose shot, deliver’d such a show’r of pebbles that I was fain to draw mine honour in and let ‘em win the work: the devil was amongst ‘em, I think surely.

PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation of Tower-hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of ‘em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running