Henry VIII - William Shakespeare (big ebook reader txt) 📗
- Author: William Shakespeare
Book online «Henry VIII - William Shakespeare (big ebook reader txt) 📗». Author William Shakespeare
Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone,
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?
It is not you I call for:
Saw ye none enter since I slept?
No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop
Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces
Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?
They promised me eternal happiness;
And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel
I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly.
I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams
Possess your fancy.
Bid the music leave,
They are harsh and heavy to me. Music ceases.
Do you note
How much her grace is alter’d on the sudden?
How long her face is drawn? how pale she looks,
And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!
You are a saucy fellow:
Deserve we no more reverence?
You are to blame,
Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,
To use so rude behavior; go to, kneel.
I humbly do entreat your highness’ pardon;
My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying
A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.
Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow
Let me ne’er see again. Exeunt Griffith and Messenger.
If my sight fail not,
You should be lord ambassador from the emperor,
My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.
O, my lord,
The times and titles now are alter’d strangely
With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,
What is your pleasure with me?
Noble lady,
First, mine own service to your grace; the next,
The king’s request that I would visit you;
Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me
Sends you his princely commendations,
And heartily entreats you take good comfort.
O my good lord, that comfort comes too late;
’Tis like a pardon after execution:
That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me;
But now I am past an comforts here, but prayers.
How does his highness?
So may he ever do! and ever flourish,
When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name
Banish’d the kingdom! Patience, is that letter,
I caused you write, yet sent away?
Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver
This to my lord the king.
In which I have commended to his goodness
The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter:
The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!
Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding—
She is young, and of a noble modest nature,
I hope she will deserve well—and a little
To love her for her mother’s sake, that loved him,
Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition
Is, that his noble grace would have some pity
Upon my wretched women, that so long
Have follow’d both my fortunes faithfully:
Of which there is not one, I dare avow,
And now I should not lie, but will deserve,
For virtue and true beauty of the soul,
For honesty and decent carriage,
A right good husband, let him be a noble:
And, sure, those men are happy that shall have ’em.
The last is, for my men; they are the poorest,
But poverty could never draw ’em from me;
That they may have their wages duly paid ’em,
And something over to remember me by:
If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life
And able means, we had not parted thus.
These are the whole contents: and, good my lord,
By that you love the dearest in this world,
As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,
Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king
To do me this last right.
By heaven, I will,
Or let me lose the fashion of a man!
I thank you, honest lord. Remember me
In all humility unto his highness:
Say his long trouble now is passing
Out of this world; tell him, in death I bless’d him,
For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,
My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience,
You must not leave me yet: I must to bed;
Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench,
Let me be used with honour: strew me over
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,
Then lay me forth: although unqueen’d, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more. Exeunt, leading Katherine.
London. A gallery in the palace.
Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell. Gardiner It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not? Boy It hath struck. GardinerThese should be hours for necessities,
Not for delights; times to repair our nature
With comforting repose, and not for us
To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!
Whither so late?
I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at primero
With the Duke of Suffolk.
I must to him too,
Before he go to bed. I’ll take my leave.
Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the matter?
It seems you are in haste: an if there be
No great offence belongs to’t, give your friend
Some touch of your late business: affairs, that walk,
As they say spirits do, at midnight, have
In them a wilder nature than
Comments (0)