CHAMBERLAIN.
An’t please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen’s daughter,
The Viscount Rochford, one of her Highness’ women.
KING.
By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweetheart,
I were unmannerly to take you out
And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen!
Let it go round.
WOLSEY.
Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready
I’ th’ privy chamber?
LOVELL.
Yes, my lord.
WOLSEY.
Your Grace,
I fear, with dancing is a little heated.
KING.
I fear, too much.
WOLSEY.
There’s fresher air, my lord,
In the next chamber.
KING.
Lead in your ladies, every one. Sweet partner,
I must not yet forsake you. Let’s be merry,
Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen healths
To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure
To lead ’em once again, and then let’s dream
Who’s best in favour. Let the music knock it.
[Exeunt with trumpets.]