WOLSEY.
Leave me a while.
[Exit Cromwell.]
[Aside.] It shall be to the Duchess of Alençon,
The French king’s sister; he shall marry her.
Anne Bullen? No; I’ll no Anne Bullens for him.
There’s more in’t than fair visage. Bullen?
No, we’ll no Bullens. Speedily I wish
To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!
NORFOLK.
He’s discontented.
SUFFOLK.
Maybe he hears the King
Does whet his anger to him.
SURREY.
Sharp enough,
Lord, for thy justice!
WOLSEY.
[Aside.] The late queen’s gentlewoman, a knight’s daughter,
To be her mistress’ mistress? The Queen’s Queen?
This candle burns not clear. ’Tis I must snuff it;
Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous
And well deserving? Yet I know her for
A spleeny Lutheran, and not wholesome to
Our cause, that she should lie i’ th’ bosom of
Our hard-ruled King. Again, there is sprung up
An heretic, an arch-one, Cranmer, one
Hath crawled into the favour of the King
And is his oracle.
NORFOLK.
He is vexed at something.
Enter King, reading a schedule, and Lovell.
SURREY.
I would ’twere something that would fret the string,
The master-cord on ’s heart.