KING.
But did he promise you that he would come?
ACTON.
Such letters we received forth of Kent.
BISHOP.
Where is my Lord the King?—Health to your grace.
Examining, my Lord, some of these caitive rebels,
It is a general voice amongst them all,
That they had never come unto this place,
But to have met their valiant general,
The good Lord Cobham, as they title him:
Whereby, my Lord, your grace may now perceive,
His treason is apparent, which before
He sought to colour by his flattery.
KING.
Now, by my royalty, I would have sworn
But for his conscience, which I bear withal,
There had not lived a more true hearted subject.
BISHOP.
It is but counterfeit, my gracious lord,
And therefore, may it please your majesty
To set your hand unto this precept here,
By which we’ll cause him forthwith to appear,
And answer this by order of the law.
KING.
Bishop, not only that, but take commission
To search, attach, imprison, and condemn
This most notorious traitor as you please.
BISHOP.
It shall be done, my Lord, without delay.—
So now I hold, Lord Cobham, in my hand,
That which shall finish thy disdained life.
KING.
I think the iron age begins but now,
(Which learned poets have so often taught)
Wherein there is no credit to be given,
To either words, or looks, or solemn oaths.
For if there were, how often hath he sworn,
How gently tuned the music of his tongue,
And with what amiable face beheld he me,
When all, God knows, was but hypocricy.
[Enter Cobham.]
COBHAM.
Long life and prosperous reign unto my lord.