HARPOOLE. Yea, yea, I am a fool still. With all your wit you will die a beggar; go too.
COBHAM. Go, you old fool; give the poor people something. Go in, poor men, into the inner court, and take such alms as there is to be had.
SOLDIER.
God bless your honor.
HARPOOLE. Hang you, rogues, hang you; there’s nothing but misery amongst you; you fear no law, you.
[Exit.]
OLD MAN. God bless you, good master Rafe, God save your life; you are good to the poor still.
[Enter the Lord Powis disguised, and shroud himself.]
COBHAM.
What fellow’s yonder comes along the grove?
Few passengers there be that know this way:
Me thinks he stops as though he stayed for me,
And meant to shroud himself amongst the bushes.
I know the Clergy hate me to the death,
And my religion gets me many foes:
And this may be some desperate rogue, suborned
To work me mischief.—As it pleaseth God!
If he come toward me, sure I’ll stay his coming—
Be he but one man—what so’er he be.
[The Lord Powis comes on.]
I have been well acquainted with that face.