King Henry VIII

The well-intentioned play by Shakespeare is a first for me, in the series of some great historical plays of his, which deafeats the purpose of building up a plot with threads that, as soon as they are attempted to be stretched to measure the structural scope and substantial import of its themes, outdo-outstretch their fragile limits.
So much so that the plot-strands wouldn't bear upon them the evolutionary entanglement of thoughts which the other histories endeavour to present.
The characters of King Henry, his wife Katherine, Anne Boleyn, and especially Cardinal Wosley, all promise the beginnings of reflections upon human nature but serious breaks in the latter half of the narrative structure couldn't help scupper whatever deliberation – monarchical, hierarchical or anything overtly thematical – the play is able to conjure.