Yorke. Lord Buckingham, me thinks you watcht her well: A pretty Plot, well chosen to build vpon. Now pray my Lord, let's see the Deuils Writ. What haue we here?
The Duke yet liues, that Henry shall depose: But him out-liue, and dye a violent death. Why this is iust, Aio aeacida Romanos vincere posso. Well, to the rest: Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolke? By Water shall he dye, and take his end. What shall betide the Duke of Somerset? Let him shunne Castles, Safer shall he be vpon the sandie Plaines, Then where Castles mounted stand. Come, come, my Lords, These Oracles are hardly attain'd, And hardly vnderstood. The King is now in progresse towards Saint Albones, With him, the Husband of this louely Lady: Thither goes these Newes, As fast as Horse can carry them: A sorry Breakfast for my Lord Protector
Buck. Your Grace shal giue me leaue, my Lord of York, To be the Poste, in hope of his reward
Yorke. At your pleasure, my good Lord. Who's within there, hoe? Enter a Seruingman.
Inuite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick To suppe with me to morrow Night. Away.
Enter the King, Queene, Protector, Cardinall, and Suffolke, with Faulkners hallowing.
Queene. Beleeue me Lords, for flying at the Brooke, I saw not better sport these seuen yeeres day: Yet by your leaue, the Winde was very high, And ten to one, old Ioane had not gone out
King. But what a point, my Lord, your Faulcon made, And what a pytch she flew aboue the rest: To see how God in all his Creatures workes, Yea Man and Birds are fayne of climbing high
Suff. No maruell, and it like your Maiestie, My Lord Protectors Hawkes doe towre so well, They know their Master loues to be aloft, And beares his thoughts aboue his Faulcons Pitch
Glost. My Lord, 'tis but a base ignoble minde, That mounts no higher then a Bird can sore: Card. I thought as much, hee would be aboue the Clouds
Glost. I my Lord Cardinall, how thinke you by that? Were it not good your Grace could flye to Heauen? King. The Treasurie of euerlasting Ioy
Card. Thy Heauen is on Earth, thine Eyes & Thoughts Beat on a Crowne, the Treasure of thy Heart, Pernitious Protector, dangerous Peere, That smooth'st it so with King and Common-weale
Glost. What, Cardinall? Is your Priest-hood growne peremptorie? Tantæne animis Coelestibus iræ, Church-men so hot? Good Vnckle hide such mallice: With such Holynesse can you doe it? Suff. No mallice Sir, no more then well becomes So good a Quarrell, and so bad a Peere
Glost. As who, my Lord? Suff. Why, as you, my Lord, An't like your Lordly Lords Protectorship
Glost. Why Suffolke, England knowes thine insolence
Queene. And thy Ambition, Gloster
King. I prythee peace, good Queene, And whet not on these furious Peeres, For blessed are the Peace-makers on Earth
Card. Let me be blessed for the Peace I make Against this prowd Protector with my Sword
Glost. Faith holy Vnckle, would't were come to that
Card. Marry, when thou dar'st
Glost. Make vp no factious numbers for the matter, In thine owne person answere thy abuse
Card. I, where thou dar'st not peepe: And if thou dar'st, this Euening, On the East side of the Groue
King. How now, my Lords? Card. Beleeue me, Cousin Gloster, Had not your man put vp the Fowle so suddenly, We had had more sport. Come with thy two-hand Sword