Lay kiffing in your arms, Lord Cardinal. Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, But that I'm bound in charity against it! Nor. Thofe articles, my Lord, are in th' King's hand: But thus much, they are foul ones. Wol. So much fairer, And fpotlefs, fhall mine innocence arife; Sur. This cannot fave you : I thank my memory, I yet remember Now, if you can, blufh, and cry guilty, Cardinal: Wol. Speak on, Sir, I dare your worst objections. If I blush, It is to fee a nobleman want manners. Sur. I'd rather want thofe than my head; have at you. First, that without the King's affent, or knowledge, Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or elfe To foreign princes, Ego & Rex meus Was ftill infcrib'd; in which you brought the King To be your fervant. Suf. That without the knowledge Either of King or Council, when you went Sur. Item. You fent a large commiffion To Gregory de Caffado, to conclude, Without the King's will or the ftate's allowance, Suf. That out of meer ambition, you have made Your holy hat be stampt on the King's coin Sur Sur. Then, that you have fent innumerable fubstance (By what means got, I leave to your own conscience) Cham. O, my Lord, Prefs not a falling man too far; 'tis virtue: Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to fee him Sur. I forgive him. Suf. Lord Cardinal, the King's further pleasure is, That therefore fuch a writ be fued against you, Out of the King's protection. This is my charge. The King fhall know it; and, no doubt, fhall thank you. So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal. In former Editions: Caftles, and whatever.] I have ventur'd to fubflitute Chattels here, as the Author's genuine Word, because the Judgment in a Writ of Premunire is, that the Defendant fhall be out of the King's Protection; and his Lands [Exeunt all but Wolfey. and Tenements, Goods and CHATTELs forfeited to the King; and that his Body fhall remain in prifon at the King's pleafure. This very Defcrption of the Pramunire is fet out by Holingfbead in his Life of K. Henry VIII. p. 909. Gg 2 THEOBALD. SCENE Wol. So farewel to the little good you bear me, 4-Nips his root;] As Spring frofts are not injurious to the roots of fruit trees, I should imagine the poet wrote SHOOT, i. e. that tender boot on which are the young leaves and blooms. The comparison as well as expreffion of nips is jufter too in this reading. He has the fame thought in Love's Labour Loft. Byron is like an envious neaping froft WARBURTON. Here is a long note. But at laft we may as well continue the ancient reading. Vernal frofts indeed do not kill the rest, but then to nip the shoots does not kill That bites the firft-born infants the tree or make it fall. The meof the spring. taphor will not in either reading So Milton in Sampson Agonistes, correspond exactly with nature. And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Enter Cromwell, ftanding amaz'd. Why, how now, Cromwell? Crom. I have no power to fpeak, Sir. Wol. What, amaz'd At my misfortunes? can thy fpirit wonder, Crom. How does your Grace? Wol. Why, well; Never fo truly happy, my good Cromwell. A ftill and quiet confcience. The King has cur'd me, A load would fink a navy, too much honour. Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right Wol. I hope, I have. I'm able now methinks, T'endure more miferies, and greater far, Crom. The heaviest, and the worst, Is your displeasure with the King. Wol. God bless him! Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen Lord Chancellor in your place. Wol. That's fomewhat fudden But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice For truth's fake and his confcience; that his bones, When When he has run his courfe, and fleeps in bleffings, Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome; Crom. Laft, that the lady Anne, Whom the King hath in fecrecy long married, Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down. The King has gone beyond me; all my glories No fun fhall ever ufher forth my honours, To be thy Lord and mafter. Seek the King; 1 know his noble nature, not to let Thy hopeful fervice perifh too. Good Cromwell, Crom. O my Lord, Must I then leave you? muft I needs forego |