Scroope.
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 resolv'd,
When he perceives his quarrel to be just.

Cam.
Then thus, lord Scroope, sir Thomas Grey, and 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, Philip, his sole daughter and heir;
Which Philip afterward was given in marriage
To Edmund Mortimer, the earl of March,
And by him had a son call'd Roger Mortimer;
Which Roger likewise had of his descent,
Edmund and Roger, Anne and Eleanor,
Two daughters and two sons; but of those, three
Dy'd without issue. Anne, that did survive,
And now was left her father's only heir,
My fortune was to marry^{9 note}; being too,

By my grandfather, of king Edward's line:
So of his sir-name, I am call'd 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* ^note.

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

Cam.
True; for this Harry, and his father both,
Harry the fourth† ^note, 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, deriv'd from Lionel,
Third son unto king Edward, ought proceed^{1 note}

Scroope.
I am resolv'd our enterprize is just^{2 note}.

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

Char.
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 proffer,
If you can stop but Harry's voyage for France.

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

Cam.
Besides, you must persuade you, there is due
Vengeance for Richard's murther, which although
It be deferr'd, yet it will 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 cropp'd, and cast into the fire.

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

Grey.
Grey will perform the same, as he is knight.

Char.
And, to assist ye, as I said before,
Chartres doth gage the honour of his king.

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

Cam.
Doubt not of him, my lord; his life pursu'd
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?

Grey.
That have I, my lord.

Cam.
We should not now be far off from his house.

Our serious conference hath beguil'd the way^{3 note}

;
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
Our minds at large, and what we crave of him. Enter lord Cobham.

Scroope.
A ready way. Here comes the man himself,
Booted and spurr'd; it seems he hath been riding.

Cam.
Well met, lord Cobham.

Cob.
My lord of Cambridge!
Your honour is most welcome into Kent,
And all the rest of this fair company.
I am new come from London, gentle lords:
But will ye not take Cowling for your host^{4 note},
And see what entertainment it affords?

Cam.
We were intended to have been your guests:
But now this lucky meeting shall suffice
To end our business, and defer that kindness.

Cob.
Business, my lord? what business should let
You^{5 note} to be merry? We have no delicates:
Yet this I'll promise you; a piece of venison,
A cup of wine, and so forth, hunter's fare:
And if you please, we'll strike the stag ourselves
Shall fill our dishes with his well-fed flesh.

Scroope.
That is indeed the thing we all desire.

Cob.
My lords, and you shall have your choice with me.

Cam.
Nay, but the stag which we desire to strike,
Lives not in Cowling: if you will consent,
And go with us, we'll bring you to a forest
Where runs a lusty herd; among the which
There is a stag superior to the rest,
A stately beast, that, when his fellows run,
He leads the race, and beats the sullen earth,
As though he scorn'd it with his trampling hoofs;
Aloft he bears his head, and with his breast,
Like a huge bulwark, counter-checks the wind:
And, when he standeth still, he stretcheth forth
His proud ambitious neck, as if he meant
To wound the firmament with forked horns.

Cob.
'Tis pity such a goodly beast should die.

Cam.
Not so, sir John; for he is tyrannous,
And gores the other deer, and will not keep
Within the limits are appointed him.
Of late he's broke into a several9Q1355^{6 note},
Which doth belong to me, and there he spoils
Both corn and pasture. Two of his wild race,
Alike for stealth and covetous encroaching,
Already are remov'd; if he were dead,
I should not only be secure from hurt,
But with his body make a royal feast.

Scroope.
How say you then? will you first hunt with us?

Cob.
'Faith, lords, I like the pastime: where's the place?

Cam.
Peruse this writing, it will shew you all,
And what occasion we have for the sport. [Presents a paper.

Cob. [Reads.]
Call ye this hunting, my lords? Is this the stag
You fain would chase, Harry, our most dread king?

So we may make a banquet for the devil;
And, in the stead of wholsome meat, prepare
A dish of poison to confound ourselves.

Cam.
Why so, lord Cobham? See you not our claim?
And how imperiously he holds the crown^{7 note}?

Scroope.
Besides, you know yourself is in disgrace,
Held as a recreant, and pursu'd to death.
This will defend you from your enemies,
And stablish your religion through the land.

Cob.
Notorious treason! yet I will conceal
My secret thoughts, to sound the depth of it. [Aside.
My lord of Cambridge, I do see your claim,
And what good may redound unto the land,
By prosecuting of this enterprize.
But where are men? where's power and furniture
To order such an action? We are weak;
Harry, you know, is a mighty potentate.

Cam.
Tut, we are strong enough; you are belov'd,
And many will be glad to follow you;
We are the like^{8 note}, and some will follow us:
Nay, there is hope from France: here's an ambassador
That promiseth both men and money too.
The commons likewise, as we hear, pretend^{9 note}

A sudden tumult; we will join with them.

Cob.
Some likelihood, I must confess, to speed:

But how shall I believe this in plain truth?
You are, my lords, such men as live in court,
And have been highly favour'd of the king,
Especially lord Scroope, whom oftentimes
He maketh choice of for his bed-fellow9Q1356^{1 note}
.
And you, lord Grey* ^note, are of his privy-council:
Is not this a train laid to entrap my life?

Cam.
Then perish may my soul! What, think you so?

Scroope.
We'll swear to you.

Grey.
Or take the sacrament.

Cob.
Nay, you are noblemen, and I imagine,
As you are honourable by birth, and blood,
So you will be in heart, in thought, in word.
I crave no other testimony but this:
That you would all subscribe, and set your hands
Unto this writing which you gave to me.

Cam.
With all our hearts: Who hath any pen and ink?

Scroope.
My pocket should have one: O, here it is.

Cam.
Give it me, lord Scroope. There is my name.

Scroope.
And there is my name.

Grey.
And mine.

Cob.
Sir, let me crave
That you would likewise write your name with theirs,
For confirmation of your master's words,
The king of France.

Char.
That will I, noble lord.

Cob.
So, now this action is well knit together,
And I am for you: where's our meeting, lords?

Cam.
Here, if you please, the tenth of July next.

Cob.
In Kent? agreed. Now let us in to supper,
I hope your honours will not away to night.

Cam.
Yes, presently, for I have far to ride,
About soliciting of other friends.

Scroope.
And we would not be absent from the court,
Lest thereby grow suspicion in the king.

Cob.
Yet taste a cup of wine before ye go.

Cam.
Not now, my lord, we thank you; so farewell. [Exeunt Scroope, Grey, Cambridge, and Chartres.

Cob.
Farewel, my noble lords.—My noble lords!
My noble villains, base conspirators!
How can they look his highness in the face,
Whom they so closely study to betray?
But I'll not sleep until I make it known:
This head shall not be burthen'd with such thoughts,
Nor in this heart will I conceal a deed
Of such impiety against my king.
Madam, how now? Enter lady Cobham, lord Powis, lady Powis, and Harpool.

L. Cob.
You're welcome home, my lord:
Why seem you so unquiet in your looks?
What hath befall'n you that disturbs your mind?

L. Pow.
Bad news, I am afraid, touching my husband.

Cob.
Madam, not so; there is your husband's pardon:
Long may ye live, each joy unto the other.

L. Pow.
So great a kindness, as I know not how
To make reply;—my sense is quite confounded.

Cob.
Let that alone; and, madam, stay me not,
For I must back unto the court again,
With all the speed I can: Harpool, my horse.

L. Cob.
So soon my lord? what, will you ride all night?

Cob.
All night or day; it must be so, sweet wife.
Urge me not why, or what my business is,

But get you in.—Lord Powis, bear with me;
And, madam, think your welcome ne'er the worse;
My house is at your use. Harpool, away.

Har.
Shall I attend your lordship to the court?

Cob.
Yea, sir; your gelding mount you presently. [Exit Cobham.

L. Cob.
I prithee, Harpool, look unto thy lord;
I do not like this sudden posting back. [Exit Harpool.

Pow.
Some earnest business is a-foot belike;
Whate'er it be, pray God be his good guide.

L. Pow.
Amen, that hath so highly us bestead.

L. Cob.
Come, madam, and my lord, we'll hope the best;
You shall not into Wales till he return.

Pow.
Though great occasion be we should depart,
Yet, madam, will we stay to be resolv'd
Of this unlook'd-for doubtful accident. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A road near Highgate. Enter Murley and his followers^{2 note}.

Mur.

Come, my hearts of flint, modestly, decently, soberly, and handsomely; no man afore his leader: follow your master, your captain, your knight that shall be, for the honour of meal-men, millers, and malt-men. Dun is the mouse^{3 note}. Dick and Tom, for the credit of Dunstable ding down the enemy to-morrow. Ye shall not come into the field like beggars. Where be Leonard and Lawrence, my two loaders? Lord have mercy upon us, what a world is this! I would give a couple of shillings for a dozen

of good feathers for you, and forty pence for as many scarfs to set you out withal. Frost and snow, a man has no heart to fight till he be brave.9Q1357

Dick.

Master, we are no babes, our town footballs can bear witness: this little 'parel we have, shall off, and we'll fight naked before we run away.

Tom.

Nay, I'm of Lawrence' mind for that, for he means to leave his life behind him^{4 note}; he and Leonard, your two loaders, are making their wills, because they have wives; and we bachelors bid our friends scramble for our goods if we die. But, master, pray ye let me ride upon Cut.

Mur.

Meal and salt, wheat and malt, fire and tow, frost and snow; why Tom thou shalt. Let me see, here are you: William and George are with my cart, and Robin and Hodge holding my own two horses; proper men, handsome men, tall men, true men.

Dick.

But master, master; methinks you are mad to hazard your own person, and a cart-load of money too.

Tom.

Yea, and master, there's a worse matter in't; if it be, as I heard say, we go to fight against all the learned bishops, that should give us their blessing: and if they curse us, we shall speed ne'er the better.

Dick.

Nay by'r lady, some say the king takes their part; and, master, dare you fight against the king?

Mur.

Fye, paltry, paltry, in and out, to and fro upon occasion; if the king be so unwise to come there, we'll fight with him too.

Tom.

What, if you should kill the king?

Mur.

Then we'll make another.

Dick.

Is that all? do you not speak treason?

Mur.

If we do, who dare trip us? we come to fight for our conscience, and for honour. Little know you what is in my bosom; look here, mad knaves, a pair of gilt spurs.

Tom.

A pair of golden spurs? Why do you not put them on your heels? Your bosom's no place for spurs.

Mur.

Be't more or less upon occasion, Lord have mercy upon us. Tom thou'rt a fool, and thou speak'st treason to knighthood. Dare any wear gold or silver spurs, till he be a knight? No, I shall be knighted to-morrow, and then they shall on. Sirs, was it ever read in the church-book of Dunstable, that ever malt-man was made knight?

Tom.

No, but you are more: you are meal-man, maltman, miller, corn-master, and all.

Dick.

Yea, and half a brewer too, and the devil and all for wealth: you bring more money with you than all the rest.

Mur.

The more's my honour; I shall be a knight to-morrow. Let me 'spose my men; Tom upon Cut^{5 note}, Dick upon Hob, Hodge upon Ball, Ralph upon Sorrel, and Robin upon the fore-horse.

Tom.
Stand; who comes there?

Act.
All friends, good fellow.

Mur.
Friends and fellows indeed, sir Roger.

Act.
Why, thus you shew yourself a gentleman,
To keep your day, and come so well prepar'd.
Your cart stands yonder guarded by your men,

Who tell me it is loaden well with coin.
What sum is there?

Mur.

Ten thousand pound, sir Roger; and modestly, decently, soberly, and handsomely, see what I have here against I be knighted.

Act.
Gilt spurs? 'Tis well.

Mur.
Where's our army, sir?

Act.
Dispers'd in sundry villages about;
Some here with us in Highgate, some at Finchley,
Tot'nam, Enfield, Edmonton, Newington,
Islington, Hogsdon, Pancras, Kensington;
Some nearer Thames, Ratcliff, Blackwall, and Bow:
But our chief strength must be the Londoners,
Which, ere the sun to-morrow shine^{6 note}
,
Will be near fifty thousand in the field.

Mur.

Marry, God dild ye, dainty my dear; but upon occasion, sir Roger Acton, doth not the king know of it, and gather his power against us?

Act.

No, he's secure at Eltham.

Mur.

What do the clergy?

Act.

They fear extremely, yet prepare no force.

Mur.

In and out, to and fro, bully my boykin, we shall carry the world afore us. I vow, by my worship, when I am knighted, we'll take the king napping, if he stand on their part.

Act.
This night we few in Highgate will repose;
With the first cock we'll rise and arm ourselves,
To be in Ficket field by break of day,
And there expect our general, sir John Oldcastle.

Mur.
What if he comes not?

Bourn.
Yet our action stands;
Sir Roger Acton may supply his place.

Mur.
True, master Bourn; but who shall make me knight?

Bev.
He that hath power to be our general.

Act.
Talk not of trifles; come let us away;
Our friends of London long till it be day. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A high road in Kent. Enter sir John and Doll.

Doll.

By my troth, thou art as jealous a man as lives.

Sir John.

Canst thou blame me, Doll? thou art my lands, my goods^{7 note}

, my jewels, my wealth, my purse: none walks within forty miles of London, but 'a plies thee as truly as the parish does the poor man's box.

Doll.

I am as true to thee as the stone is in the wall; and thou know'st well enough I was in as good doing^{8 note} when I came to thee, as any wench need to be; and therefore thou hast tried me, that thou hast: and I will not be kept as I have been, that I will not.

Sir John.

Doll, if this blade hold, there's not a pedlar walks with a pack, but thou shalt as boldly choose of his wares, as with thy ready money in a merchant's shop: we'll have as good silver as the king coins any.

Doll.

What, is all the gold spent you took the last day from the courtier?

Sir John.

'Tis gone, Doll, 'tis flown; merrily come, merrily gone. He comes a horseback that must pay for all; we'll have as good meat as money can get, and as good gowns as can be bought for gold: be merry wench, the malt-man comes on Monday.

Doll.

You might have left me at Cobham, until you had been better provided for.

Sir John.

No, sweet Doll, no; I like not that. Yon old ruffian is not for the priest; I do not like a new clerk should come in the old belfry.

Doll.

Thou art a mad priest, i'faith.

Sir John.

Come Doll, I'll see thee safe at some alehouse here at Cray; and the next sheep that comes shall leave behind his fleece.