To one man's honour) this contagious fickness, Cran. My good Lords, hitherto, in all the progrefs Dare bite the beft. I do befeech your Lordships, Be what they will, may ftand forth face to face, Suff. Nay, my Lord, That cannot be; you are a counsellor, And by that virtue no man dare accuse you. Gard. My Lord, because we've bufinefs of more mo ment, We will be fhort wi' you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure,, And our confent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower; Where being but a private man again, You fhall know many dare accufe you boldly, More than, I fear, you are provided for. Cran. Ay, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you, You are fo merciful. (Lay (Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,) But rev'rence to your calling makes me modeft. For what they have been. 'Tis a cruelty I Gard. Good Mr. Secretary, cry your Honour mercy; you may, worst Of all this table, say so. Crom. Why, my Lord? Gard. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new fect? ye are not found. Crom. Not found? Gard. Not found, I fay. Crom. Would you were half fo honest! Mens' prayers then would feck you, not their fears. Crom. Do. Remember your bold life too. Cham. This is too much; For bear for fhame, my Lords. Gard. I've done. Crom. And I. Cham. Then thus for you, my Lord: it ftands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You be convey'd to th' Tower a prisoner; There to remain, till the King's further pleasure All We are. Cran. Is there no other way of mercy, But I muft needs to th' Tower, my Lords? Gard. What other Would you expect? you're ftrangely troublesome; Enter Cran. For me? Enter Guard. Muft I go like a traitor then? Gard. Receive him, And fee him fafe i' th' Tower. Cran. Stay, good my Lords, I have a little yet to fay. Look there, Lords; Sur. 'Tis no counterfeit. Suf. 'Tis his right ring, by Heav'n. I told ye all, When we first put this dang'rous ftone a-rolling, 'Twould fall upon ourselves. Nor. D'you think, my Lords, The King will fuffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? Cham. 'Tis now too certain. How much more is his life in value with him? Would I were fairly out on't. Crom. My mind gave me, Against this man, whofe honesty the devil And his difciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye! SCENE VI. Enter King, frowning on them; takes his feat. Gard. Dread Sov'reign, how much are we bound to In daily thanks, that gave us fuch a prince; The chief aim of his honour; and to ftrengthen His royal felf in judgment comes to hear [Heav'n 1 King. You're ever good at fudden commendations, Bishop of Winchefter. But know, I come not Το To hear fuch flatt'ries now; and in my presence Thou haft a cruel nature, and a bloody. Good man, fit down. Now let me fee the proudeft [To Cran He that dares moft, but wag his finger at thee, King. No, Sir, it does not please me. I thought I had had men of fome understanding Not as a groom. There's fome of ye, I fee, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmoft, had ye means; Which ye fhall never have while I do live. Cham. My moft dread Sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excufe all. What was purpos'd If there be faith in men, meant for his trial, King. Well, well, my Lords, refpect him: May be beholden to a subject, I Am, for his love and service, fo to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him: Be friends for fhame, my Lords. My Lord of Canterbury, There is a fair young maid, that yet wants baptism: Gg You You must be godfather, and answer for her. That am a poor and humble subject to you? King. Come, come, my Lord, you'd fpare your fpoons: you fhall have Two noble partners with you; the old Dutchess Gard. With a true heart Cran. And let Heaven Witness how dear I hold this confirmation. King. Good man, those joyful tears fhew thy true heart: The common voice, I fee, is verify'd Of thee, which fays thus: Do my Lord of Canterbury SCENE VII. The palace-yard. [Exeunt. Noife and tumult. Enter Porter and his Man. Port. You'll leave rafcals; do you noise anon, ye your take the court for Paris Garden? ye rude flaves, leave your gaping. Within. Good Mr. Porter, I belong to th' larder. Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hang'd, ye rogue; is this a place to roar in? fetch me a dozen crab-tree ftaves, and strong ones; these are but fwitches.-To 'em. I'll fcratch your heads; you must be seeing chriftenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rafcals? Man. Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible (Unless we swept them from the door with cannons) To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em fleep On May-day morning; which will never be: Man |