SURREY.
Item, you sent a large commission
To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude,
Without the King’s will or the state’s allowance,
A league between his Highness and Ferrara.
SUFFOLK.
That out of mere ambition you have caused
Your holy hat to be stamped on the King’s coin.
SURREY.
Then, that you have sent innumerable substance—
By what means got, I leave to your own conscience—
To furnish Rome and to prepare the ways
You have for dignities, to the mere undoing
Of all the kingdom. Many more there are,
Which, since they are of you, and odious,
I will not taint my mouth with.
CHAMBERLAIN.
O my lord,
Press not a falling man too far! ’Tis virtue.
His faults lie open to the laws; let them,
Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him
So little of his great self.
SURREY.
I forgive him.
SUFFOLK.
Lord Cardinal, the King’s further pleasure is,
Because all those things you have done of late
By your power legative within this kingdom
Fall into th’ compass of a praemunire,
That therefore such a writ be sued against you
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be
Out of the King’s protection. This is my charge.
NORFOLK.
And so we’ll leave you to your meditations
How to live better. For your stubborn answer
About the giving back the great seal to us,
The King shall know it and, no doubt, shall thank you.
So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal.
[Exeunt all but Wolsey.]
WOLSEY.
So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell? A long farewell to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: today he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; tomorrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride
At length broke under me and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours!
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Enter Cromwell, standing amazed.