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Patience, be near me still, and set me lower.
Sad and solemn musick.
sonages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces, branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and at certain changes the forft two hold a spare garland over her head, at whicle the other four make reverend curtfies. Then
the two that held the garland deliver the same to the : other next two, who observe the same order in their
changes, and holding the garland over her head. which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order. At which, as it were bry inspiration, she makes in her seep signs of rojoycing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The musick continues,
Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye gone ? And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye ?
Grif. Madam, we're here:
Kath. It is not you I call for, Saw ye none enter since I Nept?
Grif. None, madam.
Kath. No! saw you not ev'n now a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet, whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun ? They promis'd me eternal happiness, And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear : I shall assuredly. Grif. I am molt joyful, madam, such good dreams
Poffers your fancy
Kath. Bid the musick leave, 'Tis harsh and heavy to me.
Grif. She is going, wench. Pray, pray,
Enter a Messenger.
Kath. You are a fawcy fellow,
Grif. You're to blame,
Mes. I humbly do intreat your Highness' pardon:
Kath. Admit him entrance, Griffith. But this fellow Let me ne'er fee again.
[Exit Messenger. Enter Lord Capucius. If my fight fail not, You should be lord ambassador from the Emperor, My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.
Cap. Madam, the same, your servant.
Cap. Noble lady,
Kath, Oʻmy good lord, that comfort comes too late, Tis like a pardon after execution ;
That gentle physick giv’n in time had cur'd me;
Cap. Madam, in good health.
Kath. So may he ever do, and ever flourish, When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banilh'd the Kingdom. Patience, is that letter I caus'd you write, yet sent away?
Pat. No, madam.
Kath. Sir, I must humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the King.
Cap. Most willingly, madam. Kath. In which I have commended to his goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter, ( The dews of heav'n fall thick in blessings on her!) Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding, (She's young, and of a noble modeft nature, I hope she will deserve well) and a little To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him Heav'n knows how dearly! my next poor petition Is, that his noble Grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women, that so long Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully; Of which there is not one, 'I dare avow (And now I should not lye) but well deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the foul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble : And Yure thole men are happy that shall have 'em The last is for my men ; they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw 'em from me; That they may have their wages duly paid 'em, And something over to remember me. If heaven had pleas'd to've giv'n me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. Thele are the whole contents. And good my lorth, By that you love the deareft in this world, As you wish christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor peoples friend, and urge the King To do me this last right.
Cap. By heav'n I will,
Kath. I thank you, honeft lord. Remember me
-Griffith farewelnay, Patience,
(Exeunt, leading Katharine,
ACTV. SCENE. I.
Enter Gardener Bishop of Winchester, a page with
torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell.
T's one a clock, boy, is't not?
Not for delights; times to repair ous With comforting repose, and not for us To wate these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas, Whither so late ?
Lov. Came you from the King, my lord?
Gard. I did, Sir Thomas, left him at Primero With the Duke of Suffolk.
Lov. I must to him too,
Gard, Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell ; what's the marter?
Lov. My lord, I love you: And durft commend a secret to your ear Much weightier than this word. The Queen's in labour, They say in great extremity, 'tis fear'd She'll with the labour end. Gard. The fruit she
Lov. Methinks I could
Gard. But Sir, Sir
Lov. Now, Sir, you speak of two
Gard. Yes, Sir Thomas;