SCENE

V I.

Enter King, frowning on them; takes his feat.

Gard. Dread Sov'reign, how much are we bound to heav'n

In daily thanks, that gave us fuch a Prince;
Not only good and wife, but most religious:
One that in all obedience makes the Church
The chief aim of his honour; and to ftrengthen
That holy duty, out of dear respect,
His royal felf in judgment comes to hear
The cause betwixt her and this great offender,

King. You're ever good at fudden commenda-
tions,

Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not
To hear fuch flatt'ries now and in my presence
They are too thin and base to hide offences.
To me you cannot reach: you play the spaniel,
And think with wagging of your tongue to win me:
But whatsoe'er thou tak'it me for, I'm fure,
Thou haft a cruel nature, and a bloody.
Good man, fit down: now let me fee the proudeft
[To Cran

He, that dares moft, but wag his finger at thee.
By all that's holy, he had better ftarve,
Than but once think, this place becomes thee not.
Sur. May't please your Grace

King. No, Sir, it does not please me.

I thought, I had had men of fome understanding
And wisdom, of my Council; but I find none.
Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,
This good man, (few of you deferve that title)
This honeft man, wait like a lowfie foot-boy

At

At chamber-door, and one as great as you are?
Why, what a fhame was this? did my commiffion
Bid ye fo far forget yourselves? I gave ye
Pow'r, as he was a counfellor to try him;
Not as a groom. There's fome of ye, I fee,
More out of malice than integrity,
Would try him to the utmost, had ye means;
Which ye fhall never have, while I do live.

Cham. My moft dread Sovereign, may it like your
Grace

To let my tongue excufe all. What was purpos'd
Concerning his imprisonment, was rather,
If there be faith in men, meant for his tryal,
And fair purgation to the world, than malice;
I'm fùre, in me.

King. Well, well, my lords, refpect him:
Take him, and ufe him well; he's worthy of it.
I will fay thus much for him, if a Prince

May be beholden to a fubject, I

Am, for his love and fervice, fo to him.
Make me no more ado, but all embrace him:

Be friends for fhame, my lords. My lord of Can-
terbury,

I have a fuit which you must not deny me,
There is a fair young maid, that yet wants baptifm 2
You must be godfather, and anfwer for her.

Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may
glory

In fuch an honour; how may I deserve it,
That am a poor and humble fubject to you?
King. Come, come, my lord, you'd fpare your
fpoons: you fhall have

Two noble
partners with
you: the old Dutchefs
Of Norfolk, and the lady Marquefs Dorfet.
Once more, my lord of Winchester, I charge you

Em

Embrace and love this man.
Gard. With a true heart
And brother's love i do it.
Cran. And let heaven

Witnefs, how dear I hold this confirmation.
King. Good man, thofe joyful tears fhew thy true

heart:

The common voice, I fee, is verify'd

Of thee, which fays thus: do my lord of Canterbury But one fhrewd turn, and he's your friend for

ever.

Come, lords, we trifle time away: I long
To have this young one made a chriftian.
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain:
So I grow ftronger, you more honour gain. [Exeunt.

S

CENE

VII.

The Palace-yard.

Noife and tumult within: Enter Porter and his man. Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals; do you take for Paris Garden? ye rude flaves, leave your gaping.

Within. Good Mr. Porter, I belong to th' larder. Port. Belong to the gallows and be hang'd, ye rogue is this a place to roar in? fetch me a dozen crab-tree ftaves, and ftrong ones; these are but fwitches. To 'em. I'll fcratch your heads; you

4 Thefe are but fwitches to 'em.] To what, or whom? We fhould point it thus,

Thefe are but fwitches-To'em.

i. c. bave at you, as we now fay. He fays this as he turns upon

the mob.

muft

must be seeing chriftnings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?

Man. Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible
(Unless we swept them from the doors with cannons)
To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em fleep
On May-day morning; which will never be :
We may as well pufh againft Paul's, as ftir 'em.
Port. How got they in, and be hang'd?
Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?
As much as one found cudgel of four foot
(You fee the poor remainder) could diftribute,
I made no fpare, Sir.

Port. You did nothing, Sir.

Man. I am not Sampfon, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand, to mow 'em down before me; but if I fpar'd any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or the, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to fee a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God fave her.

Within. Do you hear, Mr. Porter?

Port. I fhall be with you prefently, good Mr.
Puppy.
Keep the door clofe, firrah.

Man. What would you have me do?

Port. What fhould you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? is this Morefields to mufter in? or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great tool come to Court, the women fo befiege us? blefs me! what a fry of fornication is at the door? on my christian confcience, this one chriftning will beget a thousand; here will be father, god-father, and all together.

Man. The fpoons will be the bigger, Sir. There is a fellow fomewhat near the door, he fhould be a brafier by his face; for, o' my confcience, twenty

of

of the dog-days now reign in's nofe; all that ftand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece to blow us up. There was a haberdasher's wife of fmall wit near him, that rail'd upon me 'till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling fuch a combustion in the ftate. I mift the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cry'd out, Clubs! when I might fee from far fome forty truncheoneers, draw to her fuccour; which were the hope of the ftrand, where the was quarter'd. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to th' broomstaff with me, I defy'd 'em ftill; when fuddenly a file of boys behind 'em deliver'd fuch a shower of pibbles, loose fhot, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the Work; the devil was amongst 'em, I think, furely.

Port. These are the youths that thunder at a playhoufe; and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the Tribulation of Tower-Hill, or the limbs of Limehoufe, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have fome of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; befides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come.

5 Which were the hope of the frand,] i. e. such as, by another metaphor, he might have called the flower. But the Oxford Editor, in an ill humour, degrades them to the forlorn hope; and this is called emending.

Enter