Cromwell

Cromwell
How does your Grace?
Wolsey
Why, well.
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The King has cured me—
I humbly thank his Grace—and from these shoulders,
These ruined pillars, out of pity,
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Cromwell, weeping 
O, my lord,
Must I then leave you? Must I needs forgo
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The King shall have my service, but my prayers
Forever and forever shall be yours.
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Chancellor
My good lord Archbishop, I’m very sorry
To sit here at this present and behold
That chair stand empty. But we all are men,
In our own natures frail, and capable
Of our flesh—few are angels—out of which frailty
And want of wisdom you, that best should teach us,
Have misdemeaned yourself, and not a little,
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Cranmer
Is there no other way of mercy
But I must needs to th’ Tower, my lords?
Gardiner
What other
Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome.
Let some o’ th’ guard be ready there.
 Enter the Guard.
Cranmer
For me?
Must I go like a traitor thither?
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