Sir John Oldcastle

by Shakespeare

ACT IV. SCENE III. Kent. Court before lord Cobham’s house.

[Enter Bishop, lord Warden, Cromer the Shrieve,
Lady Cob, and attendants.]

BISHOP.
I tell ye, Lady, it’s not possible
But you should know where he conveys himself,
And you have hid him in some secret place.

LADY COBHAM.
My Lord, believe me, as I have a soul,
I know not where my lord my husband is.

BISHOP.
Go to, go to, ye are an heretic,
And will be forced by torture to confess,
If fair means will not serve to make ye tell.

LADY COBHAM.
My husband is a noble gentleman,
And need not hide himself for any fact
That ere I heard of; therefore wrong him not.

BISHOP.
Your husband is a dangerous schismatic,
Traitor to God, the King, and common wealth:
And therefore, master Croamer, shrieve of Kent,
I charge you take her to your custody,
And seize the goods of Sir John Old-castle
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.

LORD WARDEN.
Good my Lord Bishop, pacify your wrath
Against the Lady.

BISHOP.
Then let her confess
Where Old-castle her husband is concealed.

LORD WARDEN.
I dare engage mine honor and my life,
Poor gentlewoman, she is ignorant
And innocent of all his practises,
If any evil by him be practised.

BISHOP.
If, my Lord Warden? nay, then I charge you,
That all the cinque Ports, whereof you are chief,
Be laid forthwith, that he escape us not.
Shew him his highness’ warrant, Master Shrieve.

LORD WARDEN.
I am sorry for the noble gentleman—

[Enter Old-castle and Harpoole.]

BISHOP.
Peace, he comes here; now do your office.

COBHAM.
Harpoole, 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.

HARPOOLE. Be of good cheer, my Lord: if they be foes, we’ll scramble shrewdly with them: if they be friends, they are welcome. One of them (my Lord Warden) is your friend; but me thinks my lady weeps; I like not that.

CROAMER. Sir John Old-castle, Lord Cobham, in the King’s majesty’s name, I arrest ye of high treason.

COBHAM.
Treason, Master Croamer?

HARPOOLE.
Treason, Master Shrieve? sblood, what treason?

COBHAM.
Harpoole, I charge thee, stir not, but be quiet still.
Do ye arrest me, Master Shrieve, for treason?

BISHOP.
Yea, of high treason, traitor, heretic.

COBHAM.
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.

BISHOP.
What thou art the king’s hand shall testify:
Shewt him, Lord Warden.

COBHAM.
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 shewd my self 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.

BISHOP.
We are not bound to do king offices
For any traitor, schismatic, nor heretic.
The king’s hand is our warrant for our work,
Who is departed on his way for France,
And at Southhampton doth repose this night.

HARPOOLE. O that it were the blessed will of God, that thou and I were within twenty mile of it, on Salisbury plan! I would lose my head if ever thou broughtst thy head hither again.

[Aside.]

COBHAM.
My Lord Warden o’ the cinque Ports, & my Lord of
Rochester, ye are joint Commissioners: favor me so much,
On my expence to bring me to the king.

BISHOP.
What, to Southhampton?

COBHAM.
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.

[Here the Lord Warden, and Croamer uncover the Bishop, and secretly whispers with him.]

Come hither, lady—nay, sweet wife, forbear
To heap one sorrow on another’s neck:
Tis grief enough falsely to be accused,
And not permitted to acquit my self;
Do not thou with thy kind respective tears,
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.

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.]