Car. The Packet Cromwell,
Gau't you the King?
Crom. To his owne hand, in's Bed-chamber
Card. Look'd he o'th' inside of the Paper?
Crom. Presently
He did vnseale them, and the first he view'd,
He did it with a Serious minde: a heede
Was in his countenance. You he bad
Attend him heere this Morning
Card. Is he ready to come abroad?
Crom. I thinke by this he is
Card. Leaue me a while.
Exit Cromwell.
It shall be to the Dutches of Alanson,
The French Kings Sister; He shall marry her.
Anne Bullen? No: Ile no Anne Bullens for him,
There's more in't then faire Visage. Bullen?
No, wee'l no Bullens: Speedily I wish
To heare from Rome. The Marchionesse of Penbroke?
Nor. He's discontented
Suf. Maybe he heares the King
Does whet his Anger to him
Sur. Sharpe enough,
Lord for thy Iustice
Car. The late Queenes Gentlewoman?
A Knights Daughter
To be her Mistris Mistris? The Queenes, Queene?
This Candle burnes not cleere, 'tis I must snuffe it,
Then out it goes. What though I know her vertuous
And well deseruing? yet I know her for
A spleeny Lutheran, and not wholsome to
Our cause, that she should lye i'th' bosome of
Our hard rul'd King. Againe, there is sprung vp
An Heretique, an Arch-one; Cranmer, one
Hath crawl'd into the fauour of the King,
And is his Oracle
Nor. He is vex'd at something.
Enter King, reading of a Scedule.
Sur. I would 'twer somthing y would fret the string,
The Master-cord on's heart