Crom. And I. Chan. Then thus for you, my lord,-It stands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You be convey'd to the Tower a prisoner; Gar. mercy, What other Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome! Let some o'the guard be ready there. Stay, good my lords, I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords; Sur. 'Tis no counterfeit. Suf. 'Tis the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a rolling, 'Twould fall upon ourselves. Nor. The king will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? Cham. Do you think, my lords, "Tis now too certain, How much more is his life in value with him. 'Would I were fairly out on't. Crom. In seeking tales, and informations, My mind gave me, Against this man (whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at), Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat. Gar. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince; His royal self in judgement comes to hear K. Hen. You were ever good at sudden commend stions, Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not Good man, [To Cranmer.] sit down. Now let me see the proudest He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee: Than but once think his place becomes thee not. K. Hen. No, sir, it does not please me. I had thought, I had had men of some understand ing And wisdom, of my council; but I find none. Not as a groom: There's some of ye, I see, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; Which ye shall never have, while I live. Chan. Thus far, My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace K. Hen. Well, well, my lords, respect him; Am, for his love and service, so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him ; Be friends, for shame, my lords.-My lord of Canterbury, I have a suit which you must not deny me; Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory Two noble partners with you; the old duchess of Norfolk, And lady marquis Dorset; Will these please you ? Once more, my lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace, and love this mau. Gar. And brother-love, I do it. Cran. With a true heart, And let Heaven Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation. K. Hen. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart. It was an ancient custom for sponsors to present spoons to their god-children. The common voice, I see, is verified Of thee, which says thus, Do my lord of Canter bury A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.- [Exeunt. SCENE III. The Palace Yard. Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: Do you take the court for Paris garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gapingt. [Within.] Good master porter, I belong to the larder. Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, you rogue: Is this a place to roar in?-Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to them.-I'll scratch your heads: You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals? Man. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impos sible (Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons), To scatter them, as 'tis to make them sleep On May-day morning; which will never be : Man. Alas, I know not; How gets the tide in? * The bear-garden on the Bank-side. As much as one sound cudgel of four foot Port. You did nothing, sir. Man. I am not Samson, nor sir Guy, nor Colbrand*, to mow them down before me: but, if I spared 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 cow, God save her. [Within.] Do you hear, master porter? Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. Man. What would you have me do? Port. What should you do, but knock them down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool. come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all to gether. Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o'my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pink'd porringert fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the meteort once, and hit that woman, who cried out, Clubs! when I might see from far some forty truncheoneers draw to her succour, which were the hope of the Strand, giant. Guy of Warwick, nor Colbrand the Danish |