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Butts. I think your Highnefs faw this many a Day.
King. Body a me: where is it?

Butts. There, my Lord:

The high Promotion of his Grace of Canterbury,
Who holds his State at door 'mongst Pursevants,
Pages, and Foot-boys.

King. Ha 'tis he indeed.

Is this the Honour they do one another?

'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought
They had parted fo much Honefty among 'em,
At leaft good Manners, as not thus to fuffer
A Man of his Place, and fo near our Favour,
To dance Attendance on their Lordships Pleafures,
And at the Door too, like a Poft with Packets:
By holy Mary, Butts, there's Knavery;

Let 'em alone, and draw the Curtain close.
We shall hear more anon.



A Council Table brought in with Chairs and Stools, and placed under the State. Enter Lord-Chancellor, places himself at end of the Table, on the Left Hand: A Seat being left void above him, as for the Archbishop of Canterbury's Seat. Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, Surrey, LordChamberlain, and Gardiner, feat themselves in Order on each fide. Cromwel at the lower end, as Secretary.

Chan. Speak to the Bufinefs, Mr. Secretary: Why are we met in Council?

Crom. Please your Honours,

The chief Caufe concerns his Grace of Canterbury.
Gard. Has he knowledge of it?

Crom. Yes.

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Keep. My Lord Archbishop;

And has done half an hour, to know your Pleasures.

Chan. Let him come in.

Keep Your Grace may enter now.

[Cranmer approaches the Council Table.

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Chan. My good Lord Archbishop, I'm very forry
To fit here at this prefent, and behold

That Chair ftand empty: But we all are Mcn-
In our own Natures frail, and capable

Of our Flesh, few are Angels; out of which Frailty
And want of Wisdom, you that beft fhould teach us,
Have misdemean'd your felf, and not a little:
Toward the King firft, then his Laws, in filling!
The whole Realm, by your teaching and your Chaplains,
(For fo we are inform'd) with new Opinions
Divers and dangerous, which are Herefies;
And not reform'd, may prove pernicious.

Gard. Which Reformation must be fudden too,

My noble Lords; for thofe that tame wild Horfes,
Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle,

But stop their Mouths with ftubborn Bits, and fpur 'em 'Till they obey the manage. If we fuffer,

Out of our Eafinefs and childish Pity

To one Man's Honour, this contagious Sickness,
Farewel all Phyfick: And what follows then?
Commotions, Uproars, with a general taint
Of the whole State: As of late Days our Neighbours,
The upper Germany, can dearly witnefs,
Yet freshly pitied in our Memories.

Cran. My good Lords; hitherto, in all the Progrefs
Both of my Life and Office, I have labour'd,
And with no little Study, that my Teaching,
And the ftrong Courfe of my Authority,
Might go one way, and fafely; and the end
Was ever to do well: Nor is there living,
(I speak it with a fingle Heart, my Lords)
A Man that more detefts, more ftirs against,
Both in his private Confcience, and his Place,
Defacers of the publick Peace, than I do:
Pray Heav'n the King may never find a Heart
With lefs Allegiance in it. Men that make
Envy, and crooked Malice, Nourishment,
Dare bite the beft. I do befeech your Lordships,
That in this cafe of Juftice, my Accufers,

Be what they will, may ftand forth Face to Face2
And freely urge against me.


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Suf. Nay, my Lord,

That cannot be; you are a Councellor,

And by tht Vertue no Man dare accuse you.

Gard. My Lord, because we have Bufinefs of more moment, We will be fhort with you. 'Tis his Highnefs pleasure, And our confent, for better Tryal of you,

From hence you be committed to the Tower,
Where being but a private Man again,

You fhall know many dare accufe you boldly,
More than, I fear, you are provided for.

Cran. Ay, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you,
You are always my good Friend; if your Will pafs,
I fhill both find your Lordship Judge and Juror,
You are fo merciful. I fee your end,

'Tis my undoing. Love and Meeknefs, Lord,
Become a Church-man better than Ambition:
Win ftraying Souls with Modefty again,
Caft none away. That I fhall clear my self,
Lay all the weight ye can upon my Patience,
I make as little doubt, as you do Confcience
In doing daily Wrongs. I could fay more,
But Reverence to your Calling makes me modeft.
Gard. My Lord, my Lord, you are a Sectary,
That's the plain truth; your painted Glofs difcovers,
To Men that understand you, words and weakness.
Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you're a little,
By your good favour, too fharp; Men fo Noble,
How ever faulty, yet fhould find Respect
For what they have been: 'Tis a Cruelty
To load a falling Man.

Gard. Good Mr. Secretary,

I cry your Honour's Mercy; you may, worst
Of all this Table, fay fo.

Crom. Why, my Lord?

Gard. Do not I know for you a Favourer
Of this new Sect? ye are not found.
Crom. Not found?

Gard. Not found, I fay.

Mens Prayfay.

Crom. Would you were half fo honeft:

then would feek you, not their Fears.


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Gard. I have done.

Crom. And I.

Cham. Then thus for you, my Lord, it stands agreed, I take it, by all Voices; that forth with

You be convey'd to th’Tower a Prifoner;

There to remain 'till the King's further Pleasure
Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, Lords?
All. We are.

Cran. Is there no other way of Mercy,

But I must needs to th'Tower, my Lords?

Gard. What other

Would you expect? you are ftrangely troublesome ;
Let fome o'th' Guard be ready there.

Cran. For me?

Enter the Guard.

Muft I go like a Traitor thither?

Gard. Receive him.

And fee him fafe i'th' Tower.
Cran. Stay, good my Lords,

I have a little yet to fay. Look there, my Lords;
By vertue of that Ring, I take my Caufe
Out of the gripes of cruel Men, and give it
To a moft Noble Judge, the King my Master,
Cham. This is the King's Ring.

Gard. 'Tis no counterfeit.

Suf. 'Tis his right Ring, by Heav'n. I told ye all, When we first put this dang'rous Stone a rowling, Twould fall upon our felves.

Nor. Do you think, my Lords,

The King will fuffer but the little Finger
Of this Man to be vex'd?

Cham. 'Tis now too certain,

How much more is his Life in value with hm
Would I were fairly out on't,

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Crom, My Mind gave me,

In feeking Tales and Informations

Against this Man, whofe Honefty the Devil
And his Difciples only envy at,

Ye blew the Fire that burns ye; now have at ye.
Enter King frowning on them, takes his Seat.
Gard. Dread Sovereign,

How much are we bound to Heav'n,

In daily Thanks, that gave us fuch a Prince;
Not only Good and Wife, but moft Religious:
One that in all Obedience, makes the Church
The chief aim of his Honour, and to strengthen
That holy Duty of our dear Refpe&t,
His Royal Self in Judgment comes to hear
The Caufe betwixt her and this great Offender.

King. You were ever good at fudden Commendations,
Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not
To hear fuch Flattery now, and in my prefence,
They are too thin and base to hide Offences.
To me you cannot reach; you play the Spaniel,
And think with wagging of your Tongue to win me:
But whatfoe'er thou tak' me for, I'm fure

Thou haft a cruel Nature, and a bloody.

Good Man, fit down: now let me fee the proudeft [To Cran. He that dares moft, but wag his Finger at thee.

By all that's Holy, he had better starve,

Than but once think, this place becomes thee not.
Sur. May it please your Grace,

King. No, Sir, it does not pleafe me,

I had thought I had Men of fome Understanding,
And Wisdom, of my Council; but I find none:
Was it difcretion, Lords, to let this Man,
This good Man, (few of you deferve the Title,)
This honeft Man, wait like a lowfie Foot-boy
At Chamber Door, and one, as great as you are?
Why, what a fhame was this? Did my Commiffion
Bid ye fo far forget your felves? I gave ye
Power, as he was a Counsellor, to try him,
Not as a Groom; there's fome of ye, I fee,
More out of Malice than Integrity,


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