QUEEN (aside).

Heaven!

Each word brings blood from my torn heart.

LADY WILTSHIRE.

In truth,

There never lived who could refuse thee aught;
For thou wert never known to ask amiss.

But thou'rt all tears.

QUEEN.

Nought-nought-thy story, Mother.

LADY WILTSHIRE.

Ay, nothing sure will chase away thy weakness,
Be't of the body or the mind, so soon

As that sweet consciousness that thou art using
The power Heaven
thee in Heaven's cause.
gave

Grace

His

The Primate waits without t'implore your Highness,
That the old high-born Prior of the Carthusians,
And two right noble brethren of that house,
Who, obstinate and self-will'd, still subscribe not
The King's supreme dominion, may find mercy,
Nor perish on the ignominious scaffold.

QUEEN.

My Lord of Canterbury at our door!

The presence of that righteous man, dear Mother, Breathes sanctity as though from Heaven; our hearts O'erflow at once with prayer and holiest thoughts. Admit his Grace.

THE ABOVE, CRANMER.

QUEEN.

Your blessing, holy Father.

CRANMER.

Heaven save your Highness! But, remember, Lady, Prayers of anointed Priests or mitred Prelates

Are poor

and valueless to such as come

From those that wear Christ's truest livery,
The wretched and the broken-hearted.

I own thy voice-then mine are surely heard.

CRANMER.

I'll teach your Grace to do Heaven violence,
By shrining your blest name in vows of men,
From death released, from cruel public death.
The Countess Wiltshire hath made known our suit ;
And though my soul abhors the wilful hardness
Of these proud men, yet they were nursed in error-
In error, but for all-enlightening grace,

That still had darken'd our own souls. Were Heaven

Extreme t' avenge its outraged majesty,

Would the red roaring thunder ever cease?

And shall the axe earth's injured Monarchs wield

Be never satiate with the offending blood?

Had I the power!

QUEEN.

CRANMER.

The power! thou'st ever been

The rainbow o'er the awful throne. The King,
That lives but in thy presence, ne'er disdain'd
Thy righteous supplication. Oh! great Queen,
Our cause, the Gospel cause, the cause of Christ,
Is spotted o'er with shame. Rude sacrilege
Usurps the name of godly Reformation,

And revels in the spoil of shrine and altar.
Men have cast down the incensed heathenish image
To worship with more foul idolatry

The gold of which 'twas wrought; and all the blood
The too relentless Law for Treason sheds,
Attaints our blameless faith of direst cruelty.

QUEEN (aside).

More woe, more woe-to know these holy hopes, This noble trust, misplaced and frustrate all! Your Grace o'ervalues our poor influence,

She must not witness it: but he the rather

Will seek to compensate the heart's deep wrongs

By outward graciousness. Wretch, wretch myself,

I

may relieve the wretchedness of others :

Be't as it may, the world shall never know
Through me the secret of his sin, his falsehood;
But deem him by my love the gentlest husband
As the most noble Monarch upon Earth.

KING HENRY.

KING.

Refuse our mandate-shut their Abbey gates
Against our Poursuivants-refuse our oaths—
Now, by St. Paul, not one of them shall wear
His shaven crown on his audacious shoulders!

CRANMER.

Your Majesty will hear your faithful servant.

KING.

I'll none of it-their heads or their allegiance.
God's death! have all our Parliament and Peers,
Our Rev'rend Bishops, given their hands and seals,
And shall we thus be mock'd and set at nought
By beggarly and barefoot monks? Archbishop,
Out of our love to thine own reverend person,
We do refuse thy most unwise petition.
Good foolish man, not one of them but, urged

By that old Priest of the Seven Hills, would burn us,
Body and soul. We'll have no Kings but one,

None but ourself.-Tut, not a word.

How now!

What, Nan! what blank! what all a mort! Thy jests, And thy quaint sayings, and thy smiles

QUEEN.

My Liege,

I have been sued to be a suppliant

For those who, fall'n beneath thine high displeasure—

KING.

'Sdeath! ye've your answer-as I pass'd but now
Jane Seymour was set on t' entreat our mercy;
We yielded not, nor thought of being wearied
At every step with the old tedious tale―

Art answer'd?

QUEEN.

What I am,

I owe your Grace,

And in most deep humility confess it;
But being as I am, your Grace's wife,
I knew not that my maid's rejected prayer
Precluded further speech-

KING.

Why, how now, wayward!

Your maid! good truth, Sir Thomas Boleyn's daughter's
Right nobly served. I'd have you know, proud woman,
What the King gives, the King may take away-
Who raised up one from dust, may raise another.
Look to thyself, I say-thou may'st have cause;
Look, and be wise-be humble. For your Grace
We've business in our Council-not a word-
Our Queen's our subject still.

QUEEN (alone).

And this is he,