Lan. All stomach [185] him, but none dare speak a word.
Y. Mor. Ah, that bewrays their baseness, Lancaster. Were all the earls and barons of my mind, We'd[186] hale him from the bosom of the king, And at the court-gate hang the peasant up;30 Who, swoln with venom of ambitious pride, Will be the ruin of the realm and us.
Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and a Messenger.
War. Here comes my Lord of Canterbury's grace.
Lan. His countenance bewrays he is displeased.
Archbish. First were his sacred garments rent and torn, Then laid they violent hands upon him; next Himself imprisoned, and his goods asseized: This certify the pope;—away, take horse. [Exit Messenger.
Lan. My lord, will you take arms against the king?
Archbish. What need I? God himself is up in arms,40 When violence is offered to the church.
Y. Mor. Then will you join with us, that be his peers, To banish or behead that Gaveston?
Archbish. What else, my lords? for it concerns me near;— The bishoprick of Coventry is his.