BOURNE.
Why, master Murley, you shall be a Knight:
Were you not in election to be shrieve?
Have ye not past all offices but that?
Have ye not wealth to make your wife a lady?
I warrant you, my lord, our General
Bestows that honor on you at first sight.
MURLEY.
Mary, God dild ye, dainty my dear!
But tell me, who shall be our General?
Where’s the lord Cobham, sir John Old-castle,
That noble alms-giver, housekeeper, virtuous,
Religious gentleman? Come to me there, boys,
Come to me there!
ACTON.
Why, who but he shall be our General?
MURLEY.
And shall he knight me, and make me colonel?
ACTON.
My word for that: sir William Murley, knight.
MURLEY. Fellow sir Roger Acton, knight, all fellows—I mean in arms—how strong are we? how many partners? Our enemies beside the King are might: be it more or less upon occasion, reckon our force.
ACTON.
There are of us, our friends, and followers,
Three thousand and three hundred at the least;
Of northern lads four thousand, beside horse;
>From Kent there comes with sir John Old-castle
Seven thousand; then from London issue out,
Of masters, servants, strangers, prentices,
Forty odd thousands into Ficket field,
Where we appoint our special rendezvous.
MURLEY.
Fue, paltry, paltry, in and out, to and fro! Lord have
mercy upon us, what a world is this! Where’s that
Ficket field, sir Roger?
ACTON.
Behind saint Giles in the field near Holborne.
MURLEY.
Newgate, up Holborne, S. Giles in the field, and to
Tiborne: an old saw. For the day, for the day?