Anne Bullen

Not for that neither: here's the pang that pinches:

His highness having lived 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 thousandfold more bitter than

'Tis sweet at first to 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 Bullen

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 Bullen

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 perked up in a glistering grief,

And wear a golden sorrow.

Old Lady

Our content

Is our best having.

Anne Bullen

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 Bullen

Nay, good troth.

Old Lady

Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be a queen?

Anne Bullen

No, not for all the riches under heaven.

Old Lady

'Tis strange: a threepence bowed 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 Bullen

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 Bullen

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'ld venture an emballing: I myself

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there 'longed

No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here? Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN.

Lord Chamberlain

Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know

The secret of your conference?

Anne Bullen

My good lord,

Not your demand; it values not your asking:

Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.

Lord Chamberlain

It was a gentle business, and becoming

The action of good women: there is hope

All will be well.

Anne Bullen

Now, I pray God, amen!

Lord Chamberlain

You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings

Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,

Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note's

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 title

A thousand pound a year, annual support,

Out of his grace he adds.

Anne Bullen

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.

Lord Chamberlain

Lady,

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit

The king hath of you. Aside

I have perused 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. Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Anne Bullen

My honoured lord.

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 compelled fortune! — have your mouth filled up

Before you open it.

Anne Bullen

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 Bullen

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 Bullen

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.