“She loves the King of England!” replied More excitedly, “but not Henry; she loves the mighty prince who ignominiously bends his neck beneath the yoke which she pleases to impose on him. But poor and destitute, her glance would never have fallen upon you. Proud of her beauty, vain of her charms, she holds you like a conquered vassal whom she governs by a gesture or a word. She loves riches, honors and the pleasures with which you surround her. She is dazzled by the éclat of the high rank you occupy, and, to attain it, she fears not to purchase it at the price of your soul and all that you possess. What matters to her the care of your honor or the love of your subjects? Has she ever said to you: ‘Henry, I love you, but your duty separates you from me; be great, be virtuous’? Has she said: ‘Catherine, your wife, is my sovereign, and I recognize no other’? Do you not hear the voice of your people saying to your children: ‘You shall reign over us’? But what am I saying? No, of course she has not spoken thus; because she seeks to elevate herself, she thinks of her own aggrandizement—to see at her feet men whom she would never otherwise be able to command.”
“What shall I do, then, what shall I do?” cried Henry dolorously.
“Marry Anne Boleyn,” replied Thomas More coolly; “you should do it, since you have broken off her marriage with the Earl of Northumberland. If not, send her away from court.”
“I will do it! … No, I will not do it!” he exclaimed, almost in the same breath. “I shall never be able to do it.”
“That is to say, you never intend to do it,” replied More. “We can always accomplish what we resolve.”
“No, no,” replied Henry; “we cannot always do what we wish. Everything conspires against me. Tired of willing, I can make nothing bend to my will! Of what use is my royal power? To be happy is a thing impossible!”
“Yes, of all things in this life most impossible,” answered More; “and he who aspires to attain it finds his miseries redoubled at the very moment he thinks they will terminate. The possession of unlawful pleasures is poisoned by the remorse that follows in their train; and, frightened by their insecurity and short duration, we are prevented from enjoying them in quietness and peace.”
“Then,” cried Henry VIII., stamping his foot violently on the floor, “we had better be dead.”
“Yes,” replied Thomas More, “and to-morrow perhaps we may be!”
“To-morrow!” repeated the king, as if struck with terror. “No, no, More, not to-morrow. … I would not be willing now to appear in the presence of God.”