1 Sold.
God help, God help! there's law for punishing,
But there's no law for our necessity:
There be more stocks to set poor soldiers in,
Than there be houses to relieve them at.

1 Old M.
Ay, house-keeping decays in every place,
Even as Saint Peter writ, still worse and worse.

2 Old M.

Master mayor of Rochester has given command, that none shall go abroad out of the parish; and has set down an order forsooth, what every poor housholder must give for our relief; where there be some 'sessed^{1 note}, I may say to you, had almost as much need to beg as we.

1 Old M.

It is a hard world the while.

2 Old M.

If a poor man ask at door for God's

sake, they ask him for a licence, or a certificate from a justice.

1 Sold.

Faith we have none, but what we bear upon our bodies, our maim'd limbs, God help us.

2 Sold.

And yet as lame as I am, I'll with the king into France, if I can but crawl a ship-board. I had rather be slain in France, than starve in England.

1 Old M.

Ha, were I but as lusty as I was at Shrewsbury battle, I would not do as I do:—but we are now come to the good lord Cobham's, the best man to the poor in all Kent.

2 Old M.

God bless him! there be but few such.

Cob.
Thou peevish froward man, what wouldst thou have?

Har.
This pride, this pride, brings all to beggary.
I serv'd your father, and your grandfather;
Shew me such two men now: no, no; your backs,
Your backs^{2 note}


, the devil and pride, has cut the throat
Of all good house-keeping; they were the best
Yeomens' masters that ever were in England.

Cob.
Yea, except thou have a crew of filthy knaves
And sturdy rogues, still feeding at my gate,
There is no hospitality with thee.

Har.

They may sit at the gate well enough, but the devil of any thing you give them, except they'll eat stones.

Cob.
'Tis 'long then of such hungry knaves as you:
Yea, sir, here's your retinue; your guests be come;
They know their hours, I warrant you.

1 Old M.

God bless your honour! God save the good lord Cobham, and all his house!

1 Sold.

Good your honour, bestow your blessed alms upon poor men.

Cob.
Now, sir, here be your alms-knights: now are you
As safe as the emperor.

Har.

My alms-knights? Nay, they're yours: it is a shame for you, and I'll stand to't; your foolish alms maintains more vagabonds than all the noblemen in Kent beside. Out, you rogues, you knaves, work for your livings. Alas, poor men, they may beg their hearts out; there's no more charity among men than among so many mastiff dogs. [Aside.] What make you here, you needy knaves? Away, away, you villains.

2 Sold.

I beseech you, sir, be good to us.

Cob.
Nay, nay, they know thee well enough; I think
That all the beggars in this land are thy
Acquaintance: go bestow your alms, none will
Control you, sir.

Har.

What should I give them? you are grown so beggarly that you can scarce give a bit of bread at your door. You talk of your religion so long, that you have banish'd charity from you. A man may make a flax-shop in your kitchen chimnies, for any fire there is stirring.

Cob.
If thou wilt give them nothing, send them hence:
Let them not stand here starving in the cold.

Har.

Who! I drive them hence? If I drive poor men from the door, I'll be hang'd: I know not what I may come to myself. God help ye, poor knaves, ye see the world. Well, you had a mother; O God be with thee, good lady, thy soul's at rest: She gave more in shirts and smocks to poor children, than you spend in your house; and yet you live a beggar too.

Cob.
Even the worst deed that e'er my mother did,
Was in relieving such a fool as thou.

Har.

Ay, I am a fool still: with all your wit you'll die a beggar; go to.

Cob.
Go, you old fool, give the poor people something.
Go in, poor men, into the inner court,
And take such alms as there is to be had.

Sold.

God bless your honour!

Har.

Hang you rogues, hang you; there's nothing but misery amongst you; you fear no law, you.

2 Old M.

God bless you good master Ralph, God save your life; you are good to the poor still.

Cob.
What fellow's yonder comes along the grove?
Few passengers there be that know this way.
Methinks, he stops, as though he staid for me,
And meant to shroud himself among the bushes.
I know, the clergy hates me to the death,
And my religion gets me many foes:
And this may be some desperate rogue, suborn'd
To work me mischief:—as it pleaseth God.
If he come toward me, sure I'll stay his coming,
Be he but one man, whatsoe'er he be. [Lord Powis advances.
I have been well acquainted with that face.

Pow.
Well met, my honourable lord and friend.

Cob.
You are very welcome, sir, whate'er you be;
But of this sudden, sir, I do not know you.

Pow.
I am one that wisheth well unto your honour;
My name is Powis, an old friend of yours.

Cob.
My honourable lord, and worthy friend,
What makes your lordship thus alone in Kent?
And thus disguised in this strange attire?

Pow.
My lord, an unexpected accident
Hath at this time enforc'd me to these parts,
And thus it happ'd. Not yet full five days since,

Now at the last assize at Hereford,
It chanc'd that the lord Herbert and myself,
'Mongst other things, discoursing at the table,
Did fall in speech about some certain points
Of Wickliff's doctrine, 'gainst the papacy
And the religion catholick maintain'd
Through the most part of Europe at this day.
This wilful testy lord stuck not to say,
That Wickliff was a knave, a schismatick,
His doctrine devilish, and heretical;
And whatsoe'er he was, maintain'd the same,
Was traitor both to God, and to his country.
Being moved at his peremptory speech,
I told him, some maintained those opinions,
Men, and truer subjects than lord Herbert was:
And he replying in comparisons,
Your name was urg'd, my lord, against his challenge^{3 note},
To be a perfect favourer of the truth.
And, to be short, from words we fell to blows,
Our servants, and our tenants, taking parts;—
Many on both sides hurt; and for an hour
The broil by no means could be pacified;
Until the judges, rising from the bench,
Were in their persons forc'd to part the fray.

Cob.
I hope no man was violently slain.

Pow.
'Faith none, I trust, but the lord Herbert's self,
Who is in truth so dangerously hurt,
As it is doubted he can hardly scape.

Cob.
I am sorry, my good lord, for these ill news.

Pow.
This is the cause that drives me into Kent,
To shroud myself with you, so good a friend,
Until I hear how things do speed at home.

Cob.
Your lordship is most welcome unto Cobham:
But I am very sorry, my good lord,

My name was brought in question in this matter,
Considering I have many enemies,
That threaten malice, and do lie in wait
To take the vantage of the smallest thing.
But you are welcome; and repose your lordship,
And keep yourself here secret in my house,
Until we hear how the lord Herbert speeds. Enter Harpool.
Here comes my man: sirrah, what news?

Har.

Yonder's one Master Butler of the privy chamber, is sent unto you from the king.

Pow.
Pray God, that the lord Herbert be not dead,
And the king, hearing whither I am gone,
Hath sent for me.

Cob.
Comfort yourself, my lord; I warrant you.

Har.

Fellow, what ails thee? dost thou quake? dost thou shake? dost thou tremble? ha?

Cob.

Peace, you old fool. Sirrah, convey this gentleman in the back way, and bring the other into the walk.

Har.

Come, sir, you're welcome, if you love my lord.

Pow.

Gramercy, gentle friend.

Cob.
I thought as much, that it would not be long
Before I heard of something from the king,
About this matter. Enter Harpool and Butler.

Har.

Sir, yonder my lord walks, you see him; I'll have your men into the cellar the while.

Cob.

Welcome, good master Butler.

But.

Thanks, my good lord. His majesty doth commend his love unto your lordship, and wills you to repair unto the court.

Cob.
God bless his highness, and confound his enemies!

I hope his majesty is well.

But.
In good health, my lord.

Cob.
God long continue it! Methinks you look
As though you were not well: what ail ye, sir?

But.
'Faith I have had a foolish odd mischance,
That angers me. Coming o'er Shooter's-Hill,
There came one to me like a sailor, and
Ask'd my money; and whilst I staid my horse,
To draw my purse, he takes the advantage of
A little bank, and leaps behind me, whips
My purse away, and with a sudden jerk,
I know not how, threw me at least three yards
Out of my saddle. I never was so robb'd
In all my life.

Cob.
I am very sorry, sir, for your mischance;
We will send our warrant forth, to stay all such
Suspicious persons as shall be found:
Then Master Butler we'll attend on you.

But.
I humbly thank your lordship, I'll attend you. [Exeunt.

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