Speeches (Lines) for Anne Bullen
in "Henry VIII"
Total: 18

1

I,4,691

Was he mad, sir?

2

I,4,718

You are a merry gamester,
My Lord Sands.

3

I,4,723

You cannot show me.

4

II,3,1201

Not for that neither: here's the pang that pinches:
His highness having lived so long with her, and she
So good a lady that no tongue could ever
Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life,
She never knew harm-doing: O, now, after
So many courses of the sun enthroned,
Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which
To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than
'Tis sweet at first to acquire,—after this process,
To give her the avaunt! it is a pity
Would move a monster.

5

II,3,1214

O, God's will! much better
She ne'er had known pomp: though't be temporal,
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging
As soul and body's severing.

6

II,3,1221

So much the more
Must pity drop upon her. Verily,
I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.

7

II,3,1229

By my troth and maidenhead,
I would not be a queen.

8

II,3,1241

Nay, good troth.

9

II,3,1243

No, not for all the riches under heaven.
Old as I am, to queen it: but, I pray you,
What think you of a duchess? have you limbs
To bear that load of title?

10

II,3,1248

No, in truth.

11

II,3,1254

How you do talk!
I swear again, I would not be a queen
For all the world.

12

II,3,1264

My good lord,
Not your demand; it values not your asking:
Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.

13

II,3,1270

Now, I pray God, amen!

14

II,3,1280

I do not know
What kind of my obedience I should tender;
More than my all is nothing: nor my prayers
Are not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes
More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes
Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship,
Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,
As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness;
Whose health and royalty I pray for.

15

II,3,1300

My honour'd lord.

16

II,3,1309

This is strange to me.

17

II,3,1314

Come, you are pleasant.

18

II,3,1323

Good lady,
Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,
And leave me out on't. Would I had no being,
If this salute my blood a jot: it faints me,
To think what follows.
The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful
In our long absence: pray, do not deliver
What here you've heard to her.