Book: The Life of Sir John Oldcastle

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COBHAM.
I am very sorry, sir, for your mischance. We will send
our warrant forth, to stay such suspicious persons as
shall be found. Then, master Butler, we will attend you.

BUTLER.
I humbly thank your lordship, I will attend you.



ACT II. SCENE I. The same.

[Enter the Sumner.]

SUMNER.
I have the law to warrant what I do; and though the
Lord Cobham be a noble man, that dispenses not
with law: I dare serve process were a five noble men.
Though we Sumners make sometimes a mad slip in a
corner with a pretty wench, a Sumner must not go always
by seeing: a man may be content to hide his eyes, where
he may feel his profit. Well, this is my Lord Cobham's
house if I can devise to speak with him; if not, I'll clap
my citation upon's door: so my lord of Rochester bid
me. But me thinks here comes one of his men.

[Enter Harpoole.]

HARPOOLE.
Welcome, good fellow, welcome; who wouldst thou
speak with?

SUMNER.
With my lord Cobham I would speak, if thou be one of
his men.

HARPOOLE.
Yes, I am one of his men, but thou canst not speak with
my lord.

SUMNER.
May I send to him then?

HARPOOLE.
I'll tell thee that, when I know thy errand.

SUMNER.
I will not tell my errand to thee.

HARPOOLE.
Then keep it to thy self, and walk like a knave as thou
camest.

SUMNER.
I tell thee, my lord keeps no knaves, sirra.

HARPOOLE.
Then thou servest him not, I believe: what lord is thy
master?

SUMNER
My lord of Rochester.

HARPOOLE.
In good time! And what wouldst thou have with my
lord Cobham?

SUMNER.
I come, by virtue of a process, to ascite him to appear
before my lord in the court at Rochester.

HARPOOLE.
[Aside.] Well, God grant me patience! I could eat this
conger. My lord is not at home; therefore it were good,
Sumner, you carried your process back.

SUMNER.
Why, if he will not be spoken withal, then will I leave
it here; and see you that he take knowledge of it.

HARPOOLE.
Swounds, you slave, do you set up your bills here! go to;
take it down again. Doest thou know what thou dost?
Dost thou know on whom thou servest process?

SUMNER.
Yes, marry, do I; Sir John Old-castle, Lord Cobham.

HARPOOLE.
I am glad thou knowest him yet: and, sirra, dost not thou
know, that the lord Cobham is a brave lord, that keeps
good beef and beer in his house, and every day feeds a
hundred poor people at's gate, and keeps a hundred tall
fellows?

SUMNER.
What's that to my process?

HARPOOLE.
Marry, this, sir! is this process parchment?

SUMNER.
Yes, marry.

HARPOOLE.
And this seal wax?

SUMNER.
It is so.

HARPOOLE.
If this be parchment, & this wax, eat you this
parchment and this wax, or I will make parchment
of your skin, and beat your brains into wax: Sirra
Sumner, dispatch; devour, sirra, devour.

SUMNER.
I am my lord of Rochester's Sumner; I came to do
my office, and thou shalt answer it.

HARPOOLE.
Sirra, no railing, but betake you to your teeth. Thou
shalt eat no worse than thou bringst with thee: thou
bringst it for my lord, and wilt thou bring my lord
worse than thou wilt eat thy self?

SUMNER.
Sirra, I brought it not my lord to eat.

HARPOOLE.
O, do you sir me now? all's one for that: but I'll make
you eat it, for bringing it.

SUMNER.
I cannot eat it.

HARPOOLE.
Can you not? sblood I'll beat you until you have a
stomach.

[He beats him.]

SUMNER.
O hold, hold, good master serving-man! I will eat it.

HARPOOLE.
Be champing, be chawing, sir; or I'll chaw you, you
rogue! the purest of the honey! Tough wax is the
purest of the honey.

SUMNER.
O Lord, sir! oh! oh!

[He eats.]

HARPOOLE.
Feed, feed! wholesome, rogue, wholesome! Cannot you,
like an honest Sumner, walk with the devil your brother,
to fetch in your Bailiffs' rents, but you must come to a
noble man's house with process? Sblood! if thy seal were
as broad as the lead that covers Rochester church, thou
shouldst eat it.

SUMNER.
O, I am almost choked! I am almost choked!

HARPOOLE.
Who's within there? will you shame my Lord? is there
no beer in the house? Butler! I say.

[Enter Butler.]

BUTLER.
Here, here.

HARPOOLE.
Give him Beer.

[He drinks.]

There; tough old sheepskin's bare, dry meat.

SUMNER.
O sir, let me go no further; I'll eat my word.

HARPOOLE.
Yea, marry, sit! so I mean: you shall eat more than your
own word, for I'll make you eat all the words in the process.
Why, you drab monger, cannot the secrets of all the wenches
in a shire serve your turn, but you must come hither with a
citation? with a pox! I'll cite you. [He has then done.] A
cup of sack for the Sumner.

BUTLER.
Here, sir, here.

HARPOOLE.
Here, slave, I drink to thee.

SUMNER.
I thank you, sir.

HARPOOLE.
Now if thou findst thy stomach well--because thou shalt
see my Lord keep's meat in's house--if thou wilt go in,
thou shalt have a piece of beef to the break fast.

SUMNER.
No, I am very well, good Master serving-man, I thank
you; very well sir.

HARPOOLE.
I am glad on't. Then be walking towards Rochester to keep
your stomach warm; and Sumner, if I may know you disturb
a good wench within this Diocese; if I do not make thee eat
her petticoat, if there were four yards of Kentish cloth in't,
I am a villain.

SUMNER.
God be with you, Master serving-man.

[Exit.]

HARPOOLE.
Farewell, Sumner.

[Enter Constable.]

CONSTABLE.
God save you Master Harpoole.

HARPOOLE.
Welcome, Constable, welcome, Constable; what news with thee?

CONSTABLE.
And't please you, Master Harpoole, I am to make hue and cry,
for a fellow with one eye that has robbed two Clothiers, and am
to crave your hindrance, for to search all suspected places; and
they say there was a woman in the company.

HARPOOLE.
Hast thou been at the Alehouse? hast thou sought there?

CONSTABLE.
I durst not search, sir, in my Lord Cobham's liberty, except I
had some of his servants, which are for my warrant.

HARPOOLE.
An honest Constable! an honest Constable! Call forth him
that keeps the Alehouse here.

CONSTABLE.
Ho! who's within there?

[Enter Ale-man.]

ALE MAN.
Who calls there? come near a God's name! Oh, is't you,
Master Constable and Master Harpoole? you are welcome
with all my heart. What make you here so early this morning?

HARPOOLE.
Sirra, what strangers do you lodge? there is a robbery done
this morning, and we are to search for all suspected persons.

ALE MAN.
God's bores! I am sorry for't: yfaith, sir, I lodge no body but
a good honest merry priest,--they call him sir John a Wrotham--
and a handsome woman that is his niece, that he says he has
some suit in law for; and as they go up & down to London,
sometimes they lie at my house.

HARPOOLE.
What, is he here in thy house now?

ALE MAN.
She is, sir. I promise you, sir, he is a quiet man; and because
he will not trouble too many rooms, he makes the woman lie
every night at his bed's feet.

HARPOOLE.
Bring her forth! Constable, bring her forth! let's see her, let's
see her.

ALE MAN.
Dorothy, you must come down to Master Constable.


DOLL.
Anon, forsooth.

[She enters.]

HARPOOLE.
Welcome, sweet lass, welcome.

DOLL.
I thank you, good Master serving-man, and master
Constable also.

HARPOOLE.
A plump girl by the mass, a plump girl! Ha, Doll, ha!
Wilt thou forsake the priest, and go with me?

CONSTABLE.
A! well said, Master Harpoole; you are a merry old man,
yfaith. Yfaith, you will never be old. Now, by the mack,
a pretty wench indeed!

HARPOOLE.
Ye old mad merry Constable, art thou advised of that. Ha,
well said, Doll! fill some ale here.

DOLL.
[Aside.] Oh, if I wist this old priest would not stick to me,
by Jove, I would ingle this old serving-man.

HARPOOLE.
Oh you old mad colt! yfaith, I'll feak you! fill all the pots in
the house there.

CONSTABLE.
Oh, well said, Master Harpoole! you are heart of oak when
all's done.

HARPOOLE.
Ha, Doll, thou hast a sweet pair of lips, by the mass.

DOLL.
Truly you are a most sweet old man, as ever I saw; by my
troth, you have a face, able to make any woman in love with you.

HARPOOLE.
Fill, sweet Doll; I'll drink to thee.

DOLL.
'I pledge you, sir, and thank you therefore,
And I pray you let it come.'

HARPOOLE.
[Embracing her.] Doll, canst thou love me? A mad merry
lass! would to God I had never seen thee!

DOLL.
I warrant you, you will not out of my thoughts this
twelvemonth; truly you are as full of favour, as a man may be.
Ah, these sweet grey locks! by my troth, they are most lovely.

CONSTABLE.
God boores, master Harpoole, I will have one buss too.

HARPOOLE.
No licking for you, Constable! hand off, hand off!

CONSTABLE.
Bur lady, I love kissing as well as you.

DOLL.
Oh, you are an odd boy; you have a wanton eye of your own!
ah, you sweet sugar lipped wanton, you will win as many
women's hearts as come in your company.

[Enter Priest.]

WROTHAM.
Doll, come hither.

HARPOOLE.
Priest, she shall not.

DOLL.
I'll come anon, sweet love.

WROTHAM.
Hand off, old fornicator.

HARPOOLE.
Vicar, I'll sit here in spite of thee. Is this fit stuff for a priest to
carry up and down with him?


WROTHAM.
Ah, sirra, dost thou not know that a good fellow parson may
have a chapel of ease, where his parish Church is far off?

HARPOOLE.
You whoreson stoned Vicar!

WROTHAM.
You old stale ruffin! you lion of Cotswold!

HARPOOLE.
Swounds, Vicar, I'll geld you!

[Flies upon him.]

CONSTABLE.
Keep the King's peace!

DOLL.
Murder! murder! murder!

ALE MAN.
Hold! as you are men, hold! for God's sake be quiet! Put up
your weapons; you draw not in my house.

HARPOOLE.
You whoreson bawdy priest!

WROTHAM.
You old mutton monger!

CONSTABLE.
Hold, sir John, hold!

DOLL.
[To the Priest.] I pray thee, sweet hear, be quiet. I was but
sitting to drink a pot of ale with him, even as kind a man as
ever I met with.

HARPOOLE.
Thou art a thief, I warrant thee.

WROTHAM.
Then I am but as thou hast been in thy days. Let's not be
ashamed of our trade; the King has been a thief himself.


DOLL.
Come, be quiet. Hast thou sped?

WROTHAM.
I have, wench: here be crowns, yfaith.

DOLL.
Come, let's be all friends then.

CONSTABLE.
Well said, mistress Dorothy, yfaith.

HARPOOLE.
Thou art the maddest priest that ever I met with.

WROTHAM.
Give me thy hand, thou art as good a fellow. I am a
singer, a drinker, a bencher, a wencher! I can say a
mass, and kiss a lass! Faith, I have a parsonage, and
because I would not be at too much charges, this wench
serves me for a sexton.

HARPOOLE.
Well said, mad priest, we'll in and be friends.

[Exeunt.]


ACT II. SCENE II. London. A room in the Axe Inn,
without Bishop-gate.

[Enter sir Roger Acton, master Bourne, master Beverly,
and William Murley the brewer of Dunstable.]

ACTON.
Now, master Murley, I am well assured
You know our arrant, and do like the cause,
Being a man affected as we are.

MURLEY.
Mary, God dild ye, dainty my dear! no master, good sir
Roger Acton Knight, master Bourne, and master Beverly
esquires, gentlemen, and justices of the peace--no master I,
but plain William Murley, the brewer of Dunstable, your
honest neighbour, and your friend, if ye be men of my
profession.

BEVERLY.
Professed friends to Wickliffe, foes to Rome.

MURLEY.
Hold by me, lad; lean upon that staff, good master
Beverly: all of a house. Say your mind, say your mind.

ACTON.
You know our faction now is grown so great,
Throughout the realm, that it begins to smoke
Into the Clergy's eyes, and the King's ear.
High time it is that we were drawn to head,
Our general and officers appointed;
And wars, ye wot, will ask great store of coin.
Able to strength our action with your purse,
You are elected for a colonel
Over a regiment of fifteen bands.

MURLEY.
Fue, paltry, paltry! in and out, to and fro! be it more or
less, upon occasion. Lord have mercy upon us, what a
world is this! Sir Roger Acton, I am but a Dunstable
man, a plain brewer, ye know: will lusty Cavaliering
captains, gentlemen, come at my calling, go at my
bidding? Dainty my dear, they'll do a god of wax, a
horse or cheese, a prick and a pudding. No, no, ye
must appoint some lord, or knight at least, to that place.

BOURNE.
Why, master Murley, you shall be a Knight:
Were you not in election to be shrieve?
Have ye not past all offices but that?
Have ye not wealth to make your wife a lady?
I warrant you, my lord, our General
Bestows that honor on you at first sight.

MURLEY.
Mary, God dild ye, dainty my dear!
But tell me, who shall be our General?
Where's the lord Cobham, sir John Old-castle,
That noble alms-giver, housekeeper, virtuous,
Religious gentleman? Come to me there, boys,
Come to me there!

ACTON.
Why, who but he shall be our General?

MURLEY.
And shall he knight me, and make me colonel?

ACTON.
My word for that: sir William Murley, knight.

MURLEY.
Fellow sir Roger Acton, knight, all fellows--I mean
in arms--how strong are we? how many partners? Our
enemies beside the King are might: be it more or less
upon occasion, reckon our force.

ACTON.
There are of us, our friends, and followers,
Three thousand and three hundred at the least;
Of northern lads four thousand, beside horse;
>From Kent there comes with sir John Old-castle
Seven thousand; then from London issue out,
Of masters, servants, strangers, prentices,
Forty odd thousands into Ficket field,
Where we appoint our special rendezvous.

MURLEY.
Fue, paltry, paltry, in and out, to and fro! Lord have
mercy upon us, what a world is this! Where's that
Ficket field, sir Roger?

ACTON.
Behind saint Giles in the field near Holborne.

MURLEY.
Newgate, up Holborne, S. Giles in the field, and to
Tiborne: an old saw. For the day, for the day?

ACTON.
On Friday next, the fourteenth day of January.

MURLEY.
Tyllie vallie, trust me never if I have any liking of that
day! fue, paltry, paltry! Friday, quoth a! Dismal day!
Childermass day this year was Friday.

BEVERLY.
Nay, master Murley, if you observe the days,
We make some question of your constancy.
All days are like to men resolved in right.

MURLEY.
Say Amen, and say no more; but say, and hold,
master Beverly: Friday next, and Ficket field,
and William Murley, and his merry men shall be
all one. I have half a score jades that draw my
beer carts,
And every jade shall bear a knave,
And every knave shall wear a jack,
And every jack shall have a skull,
And every skull shall shew a spear,
And every spear shall kill a foe
At Ficket field, at Ficket field.
John and Tom, and Dick and Hodge,
And Rafe and Robin, William & George,
And all my knaves shall fight like men,
At Ficket field on Friday next.

BOURNE.
What sum of money mean you to disburse?

MURLEY.
It may be modestly, decently, soberly, and handsomely
I may bring five hundred pound.

ACTON.
Five hundred, man! five thousand's not enough!
A hundred thousand will not pay our men
Two months together. Either come prepared
Like a brave Knight, and martial Colonel,
In glittering gold, and gallant furniture,
Bringing in coin a cart load at he least,
And all your followers mounted on good horse,
Or never come disgraceful to us all.

BEVERLY.
Perchance you may be chosen Treasurer.
Ten thousand pound's the least that you can bring.

MURLEY.
Paltry, paltry! in and out, to and fro, upon occasion I
have ten thousand pound to spend, and ten too. And
rather than the Bishop shall have his will of me for my
conscience, it shall out all. Flame and flax, flame and
flax! it was got with water and malt, and it shall fly
with fire and gun powder. Sir Roger, a cart load of
money till the axetree crack, my self and my men in
Ficket field on Friday next: remember my Knighthood,
and my place. There's my hand; I'll be there.

[Exit.]

ACTON.
See what Ambition may persuade men to,
In hope of honor he will spend himself.

BOURNE.
I never thought a Brewer half so rich.

BEVERLY.
Was never bankerout Brewer yet but one,
With using too much malt, too little water.

ACTON.
That's no fault in Brewers now-adays.
Come, away, about our business.

[Exeunt.]


ACT II. SCENE III. An audience-chamber in the
palace at Eltham.

[Enter King Henry, Suffolk, Butler, and Old-castle
kneeling to the King.]

KING.
Tis not enough, Lord Cobham, to submit;
You must forsake your gross opinion.
The Bishops find themselves much injured,
And though, for some good service you have done,
We for our part are pleased to pardon you,
Yet they will not so soon be satisfied.

COBHAM.
My gracious Lord, unto your Majesty,
Next unto my God, I owe my life:
And what is mine, either by nature's gift,
Or fortune's bounty, all is at your service.
But, for obedience to the Pope of Rome,
I owe him none, nor shall his shaveling priests
That are in England alter my belief.
If out of holy Scripture they can prove,
That I am in an error I will yield,
And gladly take instruction at their hands;
But otherwise, I do beseech your grace,
My conscience may not be encroached upon.

KING.
We would be loath to press our subjects' bodies,
Much less their souls, the dear redeemed part
Of him that is the ruler of us all;
Yet let me counsel ye, that might command:
Do not presume to tempt them with ill words,
Nor suffer any meetings to be had
Within your house, but to the uttermost,
Disperse the flocks of this new gathering sect.

COBHAM.
My liege, if any breathe, that dares come forth,
And say my life in any of these points
Deserves th'attaindor of ignoble thoughts,
Here stand I, craving no remorse at all,
But even the utmost rigor may be shown.

KING.
Let it suffice; we know your loyalty.
What have you there?

COBHAM.
A deed of clemency;
Your Highness' pardon for Lord Powis' life,
Which I did beg, and you, my noble Lord,
Of gracious favour did vouchsafe to grant.

KING.
But yet it is not signed with our hand.

COBHAM.
Not yet, my Liege.

[One ready with pen and ink.]

KING.
The fact, you say, was done,
Not of prepensed malice, but by chance.

COBHAM.
Upon mine honor so, no otherwise.

KING.
There is his pardon; bid him make amends,

[Writes.]

And cleanse his soul to God for his offence.
What we remit, is but the body's scourge--

[Enter Bishop.]

How now, Lord Bishop?

BISHOP.
Justice, dread Sovereign!
As thou art King, so grant I may have justice.

KING.
What means this exclamation? let us know.

BISHOP.
Ah, my good Lord, the state's abused,
And our decrees most shamefully profaned.

KING.
How? or by whom?

BISHOP.
Even by this heretic,
This Jew, this Traitor to your majesty.

COBHAM.
Prelate, thou liest, even in thy greasy maw,
Or whosoever twits me with the name
Of either traitor, or of heretic.

KING.
Forbear, I say: and, Bishop, shew the cause
>From whence this late abuse hath been derived.

BISHOP.
Thus, mighty King:--By general consent,
A messenger was sent to cite this Lord,
To make appearance in the consistory;
And coming to his house, a ruffian slave,
One of his daily followers, met the man,
Who, knowing him to be a parroter,
Assaults him first and after, in contempt
Of us and our proceedings, makes him cate
The written process, parchment, scale and all:
Whereby his master neither was brought forth,
Nor we but scorned for our authority.

KING.
When was this done?

BISHOP.
At six a clock this morning.

KING.
And when came you to court?

COBHAM.
Last night, my Lord.

KING.
By this it seems, he is not guilty of it,
And you have done him wrong t'accuse him so.

BISHOP.
But it was done, my lord, by his appointment,
Or else his man durst ne'er have been so bold.

KING.
Or else you durst be bold to interrupt,
And fill our ears with frivolous complaints.
Is this the duty you do bear to us?
Was't not sufficient we did pass our word
To send for him, but you, misdoubting it,
Or--which is worse--intending to forestall
Our regal power, must likewise summon him?
This savors of Ambition, not of zeal,
And rather proves you malice his estate,
Than any way that he offends the law.
Go to, we like it not; and he your officer,
That was employed so much amiss herein,
Had his desert for being insolent.

[Enter Huntington.]

So, Cobham, when you please you may depart.

COBHAM.
I humbly bid farewell unto my liege.

[Exit.]

KING.
Farewell.--What's the news by Huntington?

HUNTINGTON.
Sir Roger Acton and a crew, my Lord,
Of bold seditious rebels are in Arms,
Intending reformation of Religion.
And with their Army they intend to pitch
In Ficket field, unless they be repulsed.

KING.
So near our presence? Dare they be so bold?
And will proud war, and eager thirst of blood,
Whom we had thought to entertain far off,
Press forth upon us in our native bounds?
Must we be forced to hansell our sharp blades
In England here, which we prepared for France?
Well, a God's name be it! What's their number, say,
Or who's the chief commander of this rout?

HUNTINGTON.
Their number is not known, as yet, my Lord,
But tis reported Sir John Old-castle
Is the chief man on whom they do depend.

KING.
How, the Lord Cobham?

HUNTINGTON.
Yes, my gracious Lord.

BISHOP.
I could have told your majesty as much
Before he went, but that I saw your Grace
Was too much blinded by his flattery.

SUFFOLK.
Send post, my Lord, to fetch him back again.

BUTLER.
Traitor unto his country, how he smoothed,
And seemed as innocent as Truth it self!

KING.
I cannot think it yet he would be false;
But if he be, no matter; let him go.
We'll meet both him and them unto their woe.

[Exeunt all but Bishop.]

BISHOP.
This falls out well, and at the last I hope
To see this heretic die in a rope.


ACT III. SCENE I. An avenue leading to lord
Cobham's house in Kent.

[Enter Earl of Cambridge, Lord Scroop, Gray, and
Chartres the French factor.]

SCROOP.
Once more, my Lord of Cambridge, make rehearsal,
How you do stand entitled to the Crown.
The deeper shall we print it in our minds,
And every man the better be resolved,
When he perceives his quarrel to be just.

CAMBRIDGE.
Then thus, Lord Scroop, sir Thomas Gray, & you,
Monsieur de Chartres, agent for the French:--
This Lionel, Duke of Clarence, as I said,
Third son of Edward (England's King) the third,
Had issue Phillip, his sole daughter and heir;
Which Phillip afterward was given in marriage
To Edmund Mortimer, the Earl of March,
And by him had a son called Roger Mortimer;
Which Roger, likewise, had of his descent
Edmund, Roger, Anne, and Eleanor--
Two daughters and two sons--but those three
Died without issue. Anne, that did survive,
And now was left her father's only heir,
My fortune was to marry, being too
By my grandfather of Kind Edward's line:
So of his sirname, I am called, you know,
Richard Plantagenet. My father was
Edward, the Duke of York, and son and heir
To Edmund Langley, Edward the third's fifth son.

SCROOP.
So that it seems your claim comes by your wife,
As lawful heir to Roger Mortimer,
The son of Edmund, which did marry Phillip,
Daughter and heir to Lionel, Duke of Clarence.

CAMBRIDGE.
True, for this Harry and his father both,
Harry the first, as plainly doth appear,
Are false intruders and usurp the Crown.
For when young Richard was at Pomfret slain,
In him the title of prince Edward died,
That was the eldest of king Edward's sons:
William, of Hatfield, and their second brother,
Death in his nonage had before bereft:
So that my wife, derived from Lionel,
Third son unto king Edward, ought proceed,
And take possession of the Diadem
Before this Harry, or his father king,
Who fetched their title but from Lancaster,
Forth of that royal line. And being thus,
What reason ist but she should have her right?

SCROOP.
I am resolved our enterprise is just.

GRAY.
Harry shall die, or else resign his crown.

CHARTRES.
Perform but that, and Charles, the king of France,
Shall aid you, lords, not only with his men,
But send you money to maintain your wars.
Five hundred thousand crowns he bade me profer,
If you can stop but Harry's voyage for France.

SCROOP.
We never had a fitter time than now,
The realm in such division as it is.

CAMBRIDGE.
Besides, you must persuade ye, there is due
Vengeance for Richard's murder, which, although
It be deferred, yet will it fall at last,
And now as likely as another time.
Sin hath had many years to ripen in,
And now the harvest cannot be far off,
Wherein the weeds of usurpation
Are to be cropped, and cast into the fire.

SCROOP.
No more, earl Cambridge; here I plight my faith,
To set up thee and thy renowned wife.

GRAY.
Gray will perform the same, as he is knight.

CHARTRES.
And to assist ye, as I said before,
Charters doth gage the honor of his king.

SCROOP.
We lack but now Lord Cobham's fellowship,
And then our plot were absolute indeed.

CAMBRIDGE.
Doubt not of him, my lord; his life's pursued
By the incensed Clergy, and of late,
Brought in displeasure with the king, assures
He may be quickly won unto our faction.
Who hath the articles were drawn at large
Of our whole purpose?

GRAY.
That have I, my Lord.

CAMBRIDGE.
We should not now be far off from his house;
Our serious conference hath beguiled the way.
See where his castle stands. Give me the writing.
When we are come unto the speech of him,
Because we will not stand to make recount,
Of that which hath been said, here he shall read

[Enter Cobham.]

Our minds at large, and what we crave of him.

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