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A man that more detefts, more ftirs against
Suf. Nay, my lord,
That cannot be; you are a counsellor,
We will be short wi'you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure,
Cran. Ay, my good lord of Winchester, I thank you, You're always my good friend; if your will pafs, I fhall both find your lordship judge and juror, You are fo merciful. I fee your end, 'Tis my undoing. Love and meeknefs, lord, Become a church-man better than ambition : Win ftraying fouls with modefty again, Caft none away. That I fhall clear my felf, (Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience) Ì make as little doubt, as you do confcience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But rev'rence to your calling makes me modeft. Gard. My lord, my lord, you are a fectary, That's the plain truth; your painted glofs difcovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness. Crom. My lord of Winchester, you are a little, By your good favour, too fharp; men fo noble, However faulty, yet fhould find refpect For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
Gard. Good Mr, Secretary
I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst
Gard. Do not I know you for a favourer
Gard. Not found, I say.
Crom. Would you were half fo honeft!
Remember your bold life too.
Gard. I've done.
Crom. And I.
Cham. Then thus for you, my lord: it ftands agreed,
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 ftrangely troublefome:
Enter the Guard..
Cran. For me?
Muft I go like a traitor then?
And fee him fafe i'th' Tower.
Cran. Stay, good my lords,
I have a little yet to fay. Look there, lords;
Cham. This is the King's ring.
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 rowling, 'Twould fall upon our felves.
Nor. D'you think, my lords,
Cham. 'Tis now too certain.
How much more is his life in value with him?
Ye blew the fire that burns ye; now have at ye.
Enter King frowning on them, takes his feat.
Gard. Dread Sov'reign, how much are we bound to heav'n
In daily thanks, that gave us fuch a Prince;
King. You're ever good at fudden commendations, Bishop of Winchefter. But know, I come not To hear fuch flatt'ries 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 proudeft.
He that dares moft, but wag his finger at thee.
King. No, Sir, it does not please me.
Not as a groom.
Cham. My moft dread Sovereign, may it like your
To let my tongue excufe all. Whas was purpos'd
King. Well, well, my lords respect him:
Am, for his love and fervice, fo to him.
Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory
Two noble partners with you: the old Dutchefs
Gard. With a true heart
King. Good man, thofe joyful tears fhew thy true
The common voice I fee is verify'd
Of thee, which fays thus: do my lord of Canterbury
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 ftaves, and ftrong ones; these are but switches to 'em: I'll fcratch your heads; you must be seeing chriftnings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rafcals?
Man. Pray Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible
We may as well pufh against Paul's, as ftir 'em.
Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in As much as one found cudgel of four foot