Not to think his own father has gone to the Devil.
Charing. Pause, brother, awhile, and calmly consider
What thou hast to say against my royal rider.
Woolchurch. Thy priest-ridden King turned desperate fighter
For the surplice, lawn-sleeves, the cross, and the mitre;
Till at last on the scaffold he was left in the lurch,
By knaves, who cried themselves up for the church,
Archbishops and bishops, archdeacons and deans.
Charing. Thy King will ne'er fight unless for his Queens.