King Henry the Eighth. Уильям Шекспир

          I come no more to make you laugh; things now

          That bear a weighty and a serious brow,

          Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,

          Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,

          We now present. Those that can pity here

          May, if they think it well, let fall a tear:

          The subject will deserve it. Such as give

          Their money out of hope they may believe

          May here find truth too. Those that come to see

          Only a show or two, and so agree

          The play may pass, if they be still and willing,

          I'll undertake may see away their shilling

          Richly in two short hours. Only they

          That come to hear a merry bawdy play,

          A noise of targets, or to see a fellow

          In a long motley coat guarded with yellow,

          Will be deceiv'd; for, gentle hearers, know,

          To rank our chosen truth with such a show

          As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting

          Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring

          To make that only true we now intend,

          Will leave us never an understanding friend.

          Therefore, for goodness sake, and as you are known

          The first and happiest hearers of the town,

          Be sad, as we would make ye. Think ye see

          The very persons of our noble story

          As they were living; think you see them great,

          And follow'd with the general throng and sweat

          Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see

          How soon this mightiness meets misery.

          And if you can be merry then, I'll say

          A man may weep upon his wedding-day.

        BUCKINGHAM. Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done

          Since last we saw in France?

        NORFOLK. I thank your Grace,

          Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer

          Of what I saw there.

        BUCKINGHAM. An untimely ague

          Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber when

          Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,

          Met in the vale of Andren.

        NORFOLK. 'Twixt Guynes and Arde-

          I was then present, saw them salute on horseback;

          Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung

          In their embracement, as they grew together;

          Which had they, what four thron'd ones could have weigh'd

          Such a compounded one?

        BUCKINGHAM. All the whole time

          I was my chamber's prisoner.

        NORFOLK. Then you lost

          The view of earthly glory; men might say,

          Till this time pomp was single, but now married

          To one above itself. Each following day

          Became the next day's master, till the last

          Made former wonders its. To-day the French,

          All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,

          Shone down the English; and to-morrow they

          Made Britain India: every man that stood

          Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were

          As cherubins, an gilt; the madams too,

          Not us'd to toil, did almost sweat to bear

          The pride upon them, that their very labour

          Was to them as a painting. Now this masque

          Was cried incomparable; and th' ensuing night

          Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings,

          Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,

          As presence did present them: him in eye

          still him in praise; and being present both,

          'Twas said they saw but one, and no discerner

          Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns-

          For

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