The Life of Sir John Oldcastle [22]
COBHAM.
Treason, Master Croamer?
HARPOOLE.
Treason, Master Shrieve? sblood, what treason?
COBHAM.
Harpoole, I charge thee, stir not, but be quiet still.
Do ye arrest me, Master Shrieve, for treason?
BISHOP.
Yea, of high treason, traitor, heretic.
COBHAM.
Defiance in his face that calls me so.
I am as true a loyal gentleman
Unto his highness as my proudest enemy.
The King shall witness my late faithful service,
For safety of his sacred majesty.
BISHOP.
What thou art the king's hand shall testify:
Shewt him, Lord Warden.
COBHAM.
Jesu defend me!
Is't possible your cunning could so temper
The princely disposition of his mind,
To sign the damage of a loyal subject?
Well, the best is, it bears an antedate,
Procured by my absence, and your malice,
But I, since that, have shewd my self as true
As any churchman that dare challenge me.
Let me be brought before his majesty;
If he acquit me not, then do your worst.
BISHOP.
We are not bound to do king offices
For any traitor, schismatic, nor heretic.
The king's hand is our warrant for our work,
Who is departed on his way for France,
And at Southhampton doth repose this night.
HARPOOLE.
O that it were the blessed will of God, that thou
and I were within twenty mile of it, on Salisbury
plan! I would lose my head if ever thou broughtst
thy head hither again.
[Aside.]
COBHAM.
My Lord Warden o' the cinque Ports, & my Lord of
Rochester, ye are joint Commissioners: favor me so much,
On my expence to bring me to the king.
BISHOP.
What, to Southhampton?
COBHAM.
Thither, my good Lord,
And if he do not clear me of all guilt,
And all suspicion of conspiracy,
Pawning his princely warrant for my truth:
I ask no favour, but extremest torture.
Bring me, or send me to him, good my Lord:
Good my Lord Warden, Master Shrieve, entreat.
[Here the Lord Warden, and Croamer uncover
the Bishop, and secretly whispers with him.]
Come hither, lady--nay, sweet wife, forbear
To heap one sorrow on another's neck:
Tis grief enough falsely to be accused,
And not permitted to acquit my self;
Do not thou with thy kind respective tears,
Torment thy husband's heart that bleeds for thee,
But be of comfort. God hath help in store
For those that put assured trust in him.
Dear wife, if they commit me to the Tower,
Come up to London to your sister's house:
That being near me, you may comfort me.
One solace find I settled in my soul,
That I am free from treason's very thought:
Only my conscience for the Gospel's sake
Is cause of all the troubles I sustain.
LADY COBHAM.
O my dear Lord, what shall betide of us?
You to the Tower, and I turned out of doors,
Our substance seized unto his highness' use,
Even to the garments longing to our backs.
HARPOOLE.
Patience, good madame, things at worst will mend,
And if they do not, yet our lives may end.
BISHOP.
Urge it no more, for if an Angel spake,
I swear by sweet saint Peter's blessed keys,
First goes he to the Tower, then to the stake.
CROAMER.
But by your leave, this warrant doth not stretch
To imprison her.
BISHOP.
No, turn her out of doors,
[Lord Warden and Old-castle whisper.]
Even as she is, and lead him to the Tower,
With guard enough for fear of rescuing.
LADY COBHAM.
O, God requite thee, thou blood-thirsty man.
COBHAM.
May it not be, my Lord of Rochester?
Wherein have I incurred your hate so far,
That my appeal unto the King's denied?
BISHOP.
No hate of mine, but power of holy church,
Forbids all favor to false heretics.
COBHAM.
Your private malice, more than public power,
Strikes most at me, but with my life it ends.
HARPOOLE.
O that I had the Bishop in that fear,
[Aside.]
That once I had his Sumner by our selves!
CROAMER.
My Lord, yet grant one suit unto us all,
That this same ancient serving man may wait
Upon my lord his master in the Tower.
BISHOP.
This old iniquity, this heretic?
That, in contempt of our church discipline,
Compelled my Sumner to devour his process!
Old Ruffian past-grace, upstart