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.
LADY COBHAM. O my dear Lord, what shall betide of us? You to the Tower, and I turned out of doors, Our substance seized unto his highness' use, Even to the garments longing to our backs.
HARPOOLE. Patience, good madame, things at worst will mend, And if they do not, yet our lives may end.
BISHOP. 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.
CROAMER. But by your leave, this warrant doth not stretch To imprison her.
BISHOP. No, turn her out of doors,
[Lord Warden and Old-castle whisper.]
Even as she is, and lead him to the Tower, With guard enough for fear of rescuing.
LADY COBHAM. O, God requite thee, thou blood-thirsty man.
COBHAM. May it not be, my Lord of Rochester? Wherein have I incurred your hate so far, That my appeal unto the King's denied?
BISHOP. No hate of mine, but power of holy church, Forbids all favor to false heretics.
COBHAM. Your private malice, more than public power, Strikes most at me, but with my life it ends.
HARPOOLE. O that I had the Bishop in that fear,
[Aside.]
That once I had his Sumner by our selves!
CROAMER. My Lord, yet grant one suit unto us all, That this same ancient serving man may wait Upon my lord his master in the Tower.
BISHOP. This old iniquity, this heretic? That, in contempt of our church discipline, Compelled my Sumner to devour his process! Old Ruffian past-grace, upstart schismatic, Had not the King prayed us to pardon ye, Ye had fried for it, ye grizzled heretic.
HARPOOLE. Sblood, my lord Bishop, ye do me wrong. I am neither heretic nor puritan, but of the old church: I'll swear, drink ale, kiss a wench, go to mass, eat fish all Lent, and fast Fridays with cakes and wine, fruit and spicery, shrive me of my old sins afore Easter, and begin new afore whitsontide.
CROAMER. A merry, mad, conceited knave, my lord.
HARPOOLE. That knave was simply put upon the Bishop.
BISHOP. 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.
COBHAM. God bless my soul from such cold charity!
BISHOP. Too th' Tower with him, and when my leisure serves, I will examine him of Articles. Look, my lord Warden, as you have in charge, The Shrive perform his office.
LORD WARDEN. Yes, my lord.
[Enter the Sumner with books.]
BISHOP. What bringst thou there? what, books of heresy?
SUMNER. 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 meter, the sickman's salve, the treasure of gladness, and all in English, not so much but the Almanac's English.
BISHOP. Away with them, to the fire with them, Clun! Now fie upon these upstart heretics. All English! burn them, burn them quickly, Clun!
HARPOOLE. But do not, Sumner, as you'll answer it, for I have there English books, my lord, that I'll not part with for your Bishopric: Bevis of Hampton, Owlglass, the Friar and the Boy, Eleanor Rumming, Robin hood, and other such godly stories, which if ye burn, by this flesh, I'll make ye drink their ashes in Saint Marget's ale.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV. SCENE IV. The entrance of the Tower.
[Enter Bishop of Rochester with his men in livery coats.]
FIRST SERVANT. Is it your honor's pleasure we shall stay, Or come back in the afternoon to fetch you?
BISHOP. Now you have brought me here into the Tower, You may go back unto the Porters Lodge, And send for drink or such things as you want, Where if I have occasion to employ you, I'll send some officer to call you to me. Into the city go not, I command you: Perhaps I may have present need to use you.