ACT II. SCENE 3.

London. The palace

Enter ANNE BULLEN and an OLD LADY

  ANNE. Not for that neither. Here's the pang that pinches:
    His Highness having liv'd so long with her, and she
    So good a lady that no tongue could ever
    Pronounce dishonour of her-by my life,
    She never knew harm-doing-O, now, after
    So many courses of the sun enthroned,
    Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which
    To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than
    'Tis sweet at first t' acquire-after this process,
    To give her the avaunt, it is a pity
    Would move a monster.
  OLD LADY. Hearts of most hard temper
    Melt and lament for her.
  ANNE. O, God's will! much better
    She ne'er had known pomp; though't be temporal,
    Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce
    It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging
    As soul and body's severing.
  OLD LADY. Alas, poor lady!
    She's a stranger now again.
  ANNE. So much the more
    Must pity drop upon her. Verily,
    I swear 'tis better to be lowly born
    And range with humble livers in content
    Than to be perk'd up in a glist'ring grief
    And wear a golden sorrow.
  OLD LADY. Our content
    Is our best having.
  ANNE. By my troth and maidenhead,
    I would not be a queen.
  OLD LADY. Beshrew me, I would,
    And venture maidenhead for 't; and so would you,
    For all this spice of your hypocrisy.
    You that have so fair parts of woman on you
    Have too a woman's heart, which ever yet
    Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty;
    Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts,
    Saving your mincing, the capacity
    Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive
    If you might please to stretch it.
  ANNE. Nay, good troth.
  OLD LADY. Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen!
  ANNE. No, not for all the riches under heaven.
  OLD LADY. 'Tis strange: a threepence bow'd would hire me,
    Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you,
    What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs
    To bear that load of title?
  ANNE. No, in truth.
  OLD LADY. Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little;
    I would not be a young count in your way
    For more than blushing comes to. If your back
    Cannot vouchsafe this burden, 'tis too weak
    Ever to get a boy.
  ANNE. How you do talk!
    I swear again I would not be a queen
    For all the world.
  OLD LADY. In faith, for little England
    You'd venture an emballing. I myself
    Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd
    No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN

  CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know
    The secret of your conference?
  ANNE. My good lord,
    Not your demand; it values not your asking.
    Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.
  CHAMBERLAIN. It was a gentle business and becoming
    The action of good women; there is hope
    All will be well.
  ANNE. Now, I pray God, amen!
  CHAMBERLAIN. You bear a gentle mind, and heav'nly blessings
    Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,
    Perceive I speak sincerely and high notes
    Ta'en of your many virtues, the King's Majesty
    Commends his good opinion of you to you, and
    Does purpose honour to you no less flowing
    Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which tide
    A thousand pound a year, annual support,
    Out of his grace he adds.
  ANNE. I do not know
    What kind of my obedience I should tender;
    More than my all is nothing, nor my prayers
    Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes
    More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes
    Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship,
    Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,
    As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness;
    Whose health and royalty I pray for.
  CHAMBERLAIN. Lady,
    I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit
    The King hath of you. [Aside] I have perus'd her well:
    Beauty and honour in her are so mingled
    That they have caught the King; and who knows yet
    But from this lady may proceed a gem
    To lighten all this isle?-I'll to the King
    And say I spoke with you.
  ANNE. My honour'd lord! Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN
  OLD LADY. Why, this it is: see, see!
    I have been begging sixteen years in court-
    Am yet a courtier beggarly-nor could
    Come pat betwixt too early and too late
    For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!
    A very fresh-fish here-fie, fie, fie upon
    This compell'd fortune!-have your mouth fill'd up
    Before you open it.
  ANNE. This is strange to me.
  OLD LADY. How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no.
    There was a lady once-'tis an old story-
    That would not be a queen, that would she not,
    For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it?
  ANNE. Come, you are pleasant.
  OLD LADY. With your theme I could
    O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!
    A thousand pounds a year for pure respect!
    No other obligation! By my life,
    That promises moe thousands: honour's train
    Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time
    I know your back will bear a duchess. Say,
    Are you not stronger than you were?
  ANNE. Good lady,
    Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,
    And leave me out on't. Would I had no being,
    If this salute my blood a jot; it faints me
    To think what follows.
    The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful
    In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver
    What here y' have heard to her.
  OLD LADY. What do you think me? Exeunt