Pray Heav'n, the King may never find a heart Be what they will, may ftand forth face to face, Suf 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 büfinefs of more moment, We will be short wi' you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure, From hence you be committed to the Tower; You fhall know many dare accufe you boldly, Cran. Ay, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you, 'Tis my undoing. Love and meeknefs, Lord, Gard. My Lord, my Lord, you are a fectary, For what they have been. To load a falling man. 'Tis a cruelty Gard Good Mr. Secretary, I cry your Honour mercy; you may, worft Of all this table fay fo. 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 so honest! Men's pray'rs then would feek you, not their fears. Gard. I fhall remember this bold language. Crom. Do. Remember your bold life too. Cham. This is too much; Forbear 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; Cran. Is there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to th' Tower, my Lords? Gard. What other Would you expect? you're strangely troublefome : Cran. For me? Enter Guard. Muft I go like a traitor then? And fee him fafe i' th' Tower. 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 stone a-rowling, '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? Vot V. G g Chani. 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, Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye! [Heav'n 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; Not only good and wife, but most religious? One that in all obedience makes the church The chief aim of his honour; and to ftrengthen That holy duty, out of dear respect, His royal felf in judgment comes to hear The caufe betwixt her and this great offender. King. You're ever good at fudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not To hear fuch flatteries now; and in my presence They are too thin and base to hide offences. To me you cannot reach: you play the Spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me. But whatfoe'er thou tak'ft me for, I'm fure Thou haft a cruel nature, and a bloody. Good man fit down. Now let me fee the proudest [To Cran. He that dares moft, but wag his finger at thee. By all that's holy, he had better ftarve, Than but once think this place becomes thee not. Sur. May't please your Grace King. No, sir, it does not please me. I thought I had had men of fome understanding This good man, (few of you deserve that title), Pow's, Pow'r, as he was a counsellor, to try him, Would try him to the utmoft, had ye means; Cham. My most dread Sovereign, make it like your Grace To let my tongue excufe all. What was purpos❜ King. Well, well, my Lords, refpect him: Am, for his love and fervice, fo to him. Be friends for fhame, my Lords. My Lord of Canter- Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory King Come, come, my Lord, you'd fpare your fpoons you fhall have Two noble partners with you; the old Duchefs Gard With a true heart And brother's love I do it. Cran. And let Heaven Witnefs how dear I hold this confirmation. King Good man, thofe joyful tears fhew thy true The common voice, I fee, is verify'd [heart: Of thee, which fays thus: Do my Lord of Canterbury But one shrewd turn, and he's your friend for ever." Come, ords, we trifle time away: I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have made ye one, Lords, one remain: So I grow itronger, you more honour ain Gg. 2 Exeunt SCENE H SCENE VII. The palace-yard. Noife and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rafcals; do you 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 staves, and strong ones; these are but switches. -To 'em. I'll fcratch your heads: you must be feeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rafcals? Man. Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible (Unless we fweep them from the door with cannons) To fcatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep On May-day morning; which will never be; Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in ! Port. You did nothing, Sir. Man, I am not Samfon, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand, to mow 'em down before me; but if I fpared any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to see a chine again; and that I would not for a crow, God fave her. Within. Do you hear, Mr. Porter? Port. I fhall be with you prefently, good Mr. Puppy. Keep the door clofe, firrah. Man. What would you have me do? Port. What fhould you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to mufter in? or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women fo befiege us? Blefs me! what a fry of fornication is at the door? on my Christian confcience, this one christening will beget a thoufand; here will be father, godfather, and all together. Man. The fpoons will be the bigger, Sir. There is a fellow fomewhat near the door, he fhould be a brafier by his face; for, o' my confcience, twenty of the dogdays |