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.

Kath. 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 all comforts here, but prayers. How does his highness?

Cap.

Madam, in good health.

Kath. So may he ever do; and ever flourish, When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor

name

Banished the kingdom!—Patience, is that letter,

I caused you write, yet sent away?

Pat.

No, madam.

[Giving it to KATHARINE.

Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver

This to my lord the King.

Cap.

Most willing, madam.

Kath. In which I have commended to his good

ness

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 peti

tion

Is, that his noble grace would have some pity
Upon my wretched women, that so long
Have followed 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
them.

The last is, for my men; they are the poorest,
But poverty could never draw them from me ;-
That they may have their wages duly paid them,
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.

160

Cap.

KING HENRY VIII.

By Heaven, I will,

Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

Kath. I thank you, honest lord.

me

In all humility unto his highness:

Remember

Say to him, his long trouble now is passing

Out of this world; tell him, in death I blessed

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;

-When I am dead, good

Call in more women.

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 unqueened, yet like
A Queen, and daughter to a King, inter me.

I can no more.

[Exeunt. leading KATHARINE

SCENE I.-London.

ACT V.

A Gallery in the Palace.

Enter GARDINER, Bishop of WINCHESTER, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir THOMAS LOVELL.

Gar. It's one o'clock, boy, is 't not?

Boy.

It hath struck.

Gar. These 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?

Lov.

Came you from the King, my lord?

Gar. I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk.

Lov.

Before he

I must to him too,

What's the

go to bed. I'll take my leave.

Gar. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell.

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 the business

That seeks despatch by day.

Lov.

My lord, I love you,

The Queen's in

And durst commend a secret to your ear
Much weightier than this work.

labour,

They say, in great extremity; and feared,

She 'll with the labour end.

Gar.

The fruit she goes with

I pray for heartily that it may find

Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,

I wish it grubbed up now.

Lov.

Methinks, I could

Cry the Amen; and yet my conscience says
She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does
Deserve our better wishes.

Gar.

But, sir, sir,

Hear me, Sir Thomas: you are a gentleman
Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;
And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well,

'T will not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take 't of me,
Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,
Sleep in their graves.