COBHAM.
My lords and you shall have your choice with me.
CAMBRIDGE.
Nay, but the stag which we desire to strike
Lives not in Cowling; if you will consent,
And go with us, we’ll bring you to a forest,
Where runs a lusty herd; amongst the which
There is a stag superior to the rest,
A stately beast that, when his fellows run,
He leads the race, and beats the sullen earth,
As though he scorned it, with his trampling hooves.
Aloft he bears his head, and with his breast,
Like a huge bulwark, counter-checks the wind:
And when he standeth still, he stretcheth forth
His proud ambitious neck, as if he meant
To wound the firmament with forked horns.
COBHAM.
Tis pity such a goodly beast should die.
CAMBRIDGE.
Not so, sir John, for he is tyrannous,
And gores the other deer, and will not keep
Within the limits are appointed him.
Of late he’s broke into a several,
Which doth belong to me, and there he spoils
Both corn and pasture. Two of his wild race,
Alike for stealth and covetous encroaching,
Already are removed; if he were dead,
I should not only be secure from hurt,
But with his body make a royal feast.
SCROOP.
How say you, then; will you first hunt with us?
COBHAM.
Faith, Lords, I like the pastime; where’s the place>
CAMBRIDGE.
Peruse this writing; it will shew you all,
And what occasion we have for the sport.
[He reads.]
COBHAM.
Call ye this hunting, my lords? Is this the stag
You fain would chase—Harry our dread king?
So we may make a banquet for the devil,
And in the stead of wholesome meat, prepare
A dish of poison to confound our selves.
CAMBRIDGE.
Why so, lord Cobham? See you not our claim?
And how imperiously he holds the crown?