The Private Life of Henry VIII. Page #4

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among your lights of love.

Oh, my poor baby

roasting in your arms.

- Your poor babe? My son!

- Your son? My charm.

Mmm. Baby.

[Clears Throat] Well, well, well.

Well, well. Shall we, uh...

Do you know

how beautiful you are?

Keep your flatteries

for the ladies of the court.

Is there one lady of the court

with eyes like wet violets...

with so sweet a shape,

with a mouth to drive a man mad?

Tom! I think you are mad.

Well, someday you'll love me a little

who loves you so much.

Someday.

Who knows what life may bring?

The crown perhaps.

- Do you mean that?

- Stranger things have happened.

In dreams.

In dreams that sometimes come true.

And if you got your crown,

what would it be worth without love?

Love is not all the world, Tom.

It is, or it is nothing.

[Coughing]

- [Grunts]

- One moment, Your Grace.

You're keeping your hair

very well, Your Grace.

I just met His Highness the prince of Wales

out with his nurse this morning.

He's gonna have a nice head of hair

one day, if he lives to enjoy it.

- Why shouldn't he?

- Oh, no reason at all.

There's no reason at all.

Let's hope he may,

being as he's the only one...

at least for the present.

What do you mean,

"For the present"?

Well, as I was saying only yesterday

at the meeting of the barbers guild...

having a family

is like having a shave.

Once you start,

there's no leaving off in the middle.

Are you presuming to suggest

I should marry again?

That's what we think, Your Grace.

Well, get out!

[Angry Grumbling]

Marry again.

[Muttering] Marry again.

- [Woman] Can't you find it?

- [Chattering]

That's a fine condiment

for the soup I want.

- [Woman Chattering]

- I know. I know, my dear.

What about this one?

Get, get, get, get, get!

[Laughing]

Whoo!

Ah, dear.

The dinner best be good tonight,

or some of you will suffer.

God save us all. Is the king

in one of his black moods again?

Black as ink.

They've been at him to marry again.

Ah, poor soul.

Aye. Marriage is like pastry.

One must be born to it.

More like one

of those French stews.

You never know what you're getting

till it's too late.

Still, a man should try for

another son or two, if he's a king.

- Eh, wife?

- Yes, my man.

And even if he's not a king.

[Laughing]

[Chattering]

[Belches, Sighs]

- [Muttering]

- Shh!

You call this a capon?

Look at that.

All sauce and no substance.

Like one of Cromwell's speeches.

[Coughing]

And just as difficult to swallow.

Too many cooks.

That's the trouble.

Above stairs as well as below!

Marry again?

Breed more sons?

Coarse brutes.

There's no delicacy nowadays.

No consideration for others.

Refinement's a thing of the past.

Manners are dead!

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