MORE.
My Lord, you are a royal Winer,
Have got a man besides your bounteous dinner.
Well, Knight, pray we come no more:
If we come often, thou maist shut thy door.
WOLSEY.
Sir Christopher, hadst thou given me half thy lands,
Thou couldest not have pleased me so much as with
This man of thine. My infant thoughts do spell:
Shortly his fortune shall be lifted higher;
True industry doth kindle honour’s fire.
And so, kind master of the Rules, farewell.
HALES.
Cromwell, farewell.
CROMWELL.
Cromwell takes his leave of you,
That near will leave to love and honour you.
[Exit omnes. The Music plays, as they go in.]
ACT IV.
[Enter Chorus.]
CHORUS.
Now Cromwell’s highest fortunes doth begin.
Wolsey, that loved him as he did his life,
Committed all his treasure to his hands.
Wolsey is dead, and Gardiner, his man,
Is now created Bishop of Winchester:
Pardon if we omit all Wolsey’s life,
Because our play depends on Cromwell’s death.
Now sit and see his highest state of all;
His haight of rising and his sudden fall.
Pardon the errors is all ready past,
And live in hope the best doth come at last:
My hope upon your favour doth depend,
And look to have your liking ere the end.
[Exit.]