ACT IV. SCENE 2.

Kimbolton

Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between GRIFFITH, her Gentleman Usher, and PATIENCE, her woman

  GRIFFITH. How does your Grace?
  KATHARINE. O Griffith, sick to death!
    My legs like loaden branches bow to th' earth,
    Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.
    So-now, methinks, I feel a little ease.
    Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,
    That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,
    Was dead?
  GRIFFITH. Yes, madam; but I think your Grace,
    Out of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't.
  KATHARINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died.
    If well, he stepp'd before me, happily,
    For my example.
  GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam;
    For after the stout Earl Northumberland
    Arrested him at York and brought him forward,
    As a man sorely tainted, to his answer,
    He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill
    He could not sit his mule.
  KATHARINE. Alas, poor man!
  GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
    Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,
    With all his covent, honourably receiv'd him;
    To whom he gave these words: 'O father Abbot,
    An old man, broken with the storms of state,
    Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
    Give him a little earth for charity!'
    So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness
    Pursu'd him still And three nights after this,
    About the hour of eight-which he himself
    Foretold should be his last-full of repentance,
    Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
    He gave his honours to the world again,
    His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.
  KATHARINE. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!
    Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,
    And yet with charity. He was a man
    Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking
    Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion,
    Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair play;
    His own opinion was his law. I' th' presence
    He would say untruths, and be ever double
    Both in his words and meaning. He was never,
    But where he meant to ruin, pitiful.
    His promises were, as he then was, mighty;
    But his performance, as he is now, nothing.
    Of his own body he was ill, and gave
    The clergy ill example.
  GRIFFITH. Noble madam,
    Men's evil manners live in brass: their virtues
    We write in water. May it please your Highness
    To hear me speak his good now?
  KATHARINE. Yes, good Griffith;
    I were malicious else.
  GRIFFITH. This Cardinal,
    Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
    Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle.
    He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;
    Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;
    Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not,
    But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.
    And though he were unsatisfied in getting-
    Which was a sin-yet in bestowing, madam,
    He was most princely: ever witness for him
    Those twins of learning that he rais'd in you,
    Ipswich and Oxford! One of which fell with him,
    Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;
    The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,
    So excellent in art, and still so rising,
    That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
    His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;
    For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
    And found the blessedness of being little.
    And, to add greater honours to his age
    Than man could give him, he died fearing God.
  KATHARINE. After my death I wish no other herald,
    No other speaker of my living actions,
    To keep mine honour from corruption,
    But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.
    Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,
    With thy religious truth and modesty,
    Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him!
    patience, be near me still, and set me lower:
    I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,
    Cause the musicians play me that sad note
    I nam'd my knell, whilst I sit meditating
    On that celestial harmony I go to.
                                              [Sad and solemn music]
  GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let's sit down quiet,
    For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience.