Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.

Enter Gardiner Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a Torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Louell.

Gard. It's one a clocke Boy, is't not

Boy. It hath strooke

Gard. These should be houres for necessities, Not for delights: Times to repayre our Nature With comforting repose, and not for vs To waste these times. Good houre of night Sir Thomas: Whether so late? Lou. Came you from the King, my Lord? Gar. I did Sir Thomas, and left him at Primero With the Duke of Suffolke

Lou. I must to him too Before he go to bed. Ile take my leaue

Gard. Not yet Sir Thomas Louell: what's the matter? It seemes you are in hast: and if there be No great offence belongs too't, giue your Friend Some touch of your late businesse: Affaires that walke (As they say Spirits do) at midnight, haue In them a wilder Nature, then the businesse That seekes dispatch by day

Lou. My Lord, I loue you; And durst commend a secret to your eare Much waightier then this worke. The Queens in Labor They say in great Extremity, and fear'd Shee'l with the Labour, end

Gard. The fruite she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may finde Good time, and liue: but for the Stocke Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd vp now

Lou. Me thinkes I could Cry the Amen, and yet my Conscience sayes Shee's a good Creature, and sweet-Ladie do's Deserue our better wishes

Gard. But Sir, Sir, Heare me Sir Thomas, y'are a Gentleman Of mine owne way. I know you Wise, Religious, And let me tell you, it will ne're be well, 'Twill not Sir Thomas Louell, tak't of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwel, her two hands, and shee Sleepe in their Graues

Louell. Now Sir, you speake of two The most remark'd i'th' Kingdome: as for Cromwell, Beside that of the Iewell-House, is made Master O'th' Rolles, and the Kings Secretary. Further Sir, Stands in the gap and Trade of moe Preferments, With which the Lime will loade him. Th' Archbyshop Is the Kings hand, and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him? Gard. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that Dare, and I my selfe haue ventur'd To speake my minde of him: and indeed this day, Sir (I may tell it you) I thinke I haue Incenst the Lords o'th' Councell, that he is (For so I know he is, they know he is) A most Arch-Heretique, a Pestilence That does infect the Land: with which, they moued Haue broken with the King, who hath so farre Giuen eare to our Complaint, of his great Grace, And Princely Care, fore-seeing those fell Mischiefes, Our Reasons layd before him, hath commanded To morrow Morning to the Councell Boord He be conuented. He's a ranke weed Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your Affaires I hinder you too long: Good night, Sir Thomas.

Exit Gardiner and Page.

Lou. Many good nights, my Lord, I rest your seruant. Enter King and Suffolke.

King. Charles, I will play no more to night, My mindes not on't, you are too hard for me

Suff. Sir, I did neuer win of you before

King. But little Charles, Nor shall not when my Fancies on my play. Now Louel, from the Queene what is the Newes

Lou. I could not personally deliuer to her What you commanded me, but by her woman, I sent your Message, who return'd her thankes In the great'st humblenesse, and desir'd your Highnesse Most heartily to pray for her

King. What say'st thou? Ha? To pray for her? What is she crying out? Lou. So said her woman, and that her suffrance made Almost each pang, a death

King. Alas good Lady

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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