Roch.
I tell ye, lady, 'tis not possible
But you should know where he conveys himself;
And you have hid him in some secret place.

L. Cob.
My lord, believe me, as I have a soul^{1 note},
I know not where my lord my husband is.

Roch.
Go to, go to; you are an heretick,
And will be forc'd by torture to confess,
If fair means will not serve to make you tell.

L. Cob.
My husband is a noble gentleman,
And need not hide himself for any fact
That e'er I heard of; therefore wrong him not.

Roch.
Your husband is a dangerous schismatick,
Traitor to God, the king, and commonwealth;
And therefore, master Cromer, shrieve of Kent,
I charge you take her to your custody,
And seize the goods of sir John Oldcastle
To the king's use; let her go in no more,
To fetch so much as her apparel out:
There is your warrant from his majesty.

L. War.
Good my lord bishop, pacify your wrath
Against the lady.

Roch.
Then let her confess
Where Oldcastle her husband is conceal'd.

L. War.
I dare engage mine honour and my life,
Poor gentlewoman, she is ignorant
And innocent of all his practices,
If any evil by him be practised.

Roch.
If, my lord warden? Nay then I charge you,
That all cinque-ports, whereof you are chief,
Be laid forthwith^{2 note}; that he escapes us not.
Shew him his highness' warrant, master sheriff.

L. War.
I am sorry for the noble gentleman.

Roch.
Peace, he comes here; now do your office. Enter Cobham and Harpool.

Cob.
Harpool, what business have we here in hand?
What makes the bishop and the sheriff here?
I fear my coming home is dangerous;
I would I had not made such haste to Cobham.

Har.

Be of good cheer, my lord: if they be foes, we'll scramble shrewdly with them; if they be friends, they are welcome.

Crom.

Sir John Oldcastle, lord Cobham, in the king's name, I arrest you of high treason.

Cob.

Treason, master Cromer!

Har.

Treason, master sheriff! what treason?

Cob.
Harpool, I charge thee stir not, but be quiet.
Do you arrest me of treason, master sheriff?

Roch.
Yea, of high treason, traitor, heretick.

Cob.
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.

Roch.
What thou art, the king's hand shall testify:
Shew him, lord warden.

Cob.
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 shew'd myself 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.

Roch.
We are not bound to do kind offices
For any traitor, schismatick, nor heretick.
The king's hand is our warrant for our work,
Who is departed on his way for France,
And at Southampton doth repose this night.

Har.

O that thou and I were within twenty miles of it, on Salisbury plain! I would lose my head if thou brought'st thy head hither again.

Cob.

My lord warden of the cinque-ports, and lord of Rochester, ye are joint commissioners: favour me so much, on my expence, to bring me to the king.

Roch.
What, to Southampton?

Cob.
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. [They both entreat for him.
Come hither, lady;—nay, sweet wife, forbear
To heap one sorrow on another's neck.
'Tis grief enough falsely to be accus'd,
And not permitted to acquit myself;
Do not thou, with thy kind respective tears^{3 note}
,
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.

L. Cob.
O my dear lord, what shall betide of us?
You to the Tower, and I turn'd out of doors;
Our substance seiz'd unto his highness' use,
Even to the garments 'longing to our backs?

Har.
Patience, good madam, things at worst will mend;
And if they do not, yet our lives may end.

Roch.
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.

Crom.
But, by your leave, this warrant doth not stretch
To imprison her.

Roch.
No; turn her out of doors,
Even as she is, and lead him to the Tower,
With guard enough, for fear of rescuing.

L. Cob.
O God requite thee, thou blood-thirsty man!

Cob.
May it not be, my lord of Rochester?
Wherein have I incurr'd your hate so far,
That my appeal unto the king's deny'd?

Roch.
No hate of mine, but power of holy church,
Forbids all favour to false hereticks.

Cob.
Your private malice, more than publick power,
Strikes most at me; but with my life it ends.

Har.
O that I had the bishop in that fear
That once I had his sumner by ourselves! [Aside.

Crom.
My lord, yet grant one suit unto us all;
That this same ancient servingman may wait
Upon my lord his master, in the Tower.

Roch.
This old iniquity^{4 note}, this heretick,
That, in contempt of our church discipline,
Compell'd my sumner to devour his process!
Old ruffian past-grace, upstart schismatick,
Had not the king pray'd us to pardon you,
You had fry'd for't, you grizled heretick.

Har.

'Sblood, my lord bishop, you wrong me; I am neither heretick nor puritan, but of the old church. I'll swear, drink ale, kiss a wench, go to mass, eat fish all Lent^{5 note}, and fast Fridays with cakes and wine, fruit and spicery; shrive me of my old sins afore Easter, and begin new before Whitsuntide.

Crom.
A merry mad conceited knave, my lord.

Har.
That knave was simply put upon the bishop.

Roch.
Well, God forgive him, and I pardon him:

Let him attend his master in the Tower,
For I in charity wish his soul no hurt.

Cob.
God bless my soul from such cold charity!

Roch.
To the Tower with him; and when my leisure serves,
I will examine him of articles.
Look, my lord warden, as you have in charge,
The shrieve perform his office.

War.
Ay, my lord. [Exeunt lord warden, Cromer, and lord Cobham. Enter, from lord Cobham's house, Sumner with books.

Roch.
What bring'st thou there? what, books of heresy?

Sum.

Yea, my lord, here's not a Latin book, no not so much as our Lady's Psalter. Here's the Bible, the Testament, the Psalms in metre, The Sick Man's Salve, the Treasure of Gladness, all English; no not so much but the Almanack's English.

Roch.
Away with them, to the fire with them, Clun:
Now fye upon these upstart hereticks.
All English! burn them, burn them quickly, Clun.

Har.

But do not, sumner, as you'll answer it; for I have there English books, my lord, that I'll not part withal for your bishoprick: Bevis of Hampton, Owleglass, The Friar and the Boy, Elinour Rumming, Robin Hood^{6 note}

which if ye burn, by this flesh I'll make you drink their ashes in Saint Margaret's ale^{7 note}.

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