[Aside.]
COBHAM.
My Lord Warden o’ the cinque Ports, & my Lord of
Rochester, ye are joint Commissioners: favor me so much,
On my expence to bring me to the king.
BISHOP.
What, to Southhampton?
COBHAM.
Thither, my good Lord,
And if he do not clear me of all guilt,
And all suspicion of conspiracy,
Pawning his princely warrant for my truth:
I ask no favour, but extremest torture.
Bring me, or send me to him, good my Lord:
Good my Lord Warden, Master Shrieve, entreat.
[Here the Lord Warden, and Croamer uncover the Bishop, and secretly whispers with him.]
Come hither, lady—nay, sweet wife, forbear
To heap one sorrow on another’s neck:
Tis grief enough falsely to be accused,
And not permitted to acquit my self;
Do not thou with thy kind respective tears,
Torment thy husband’s heart that bleeds for thee,
But be of comfort. God hath help in store
For those that put assured trust in him.
Dear wife, if they commit me to the Tower,
Come up to London to your sister’s house:
That being near me, you may comfort me.
One solace find I settled in my soul,
That I am free from treason’s very thought:
Only my conscience for the Gospel’s sake
Is cause of all the troubles I sustain.
LADY COBHAM.
O my dear Lord, what shall betide of us?
You to the Tower, and I turned out of doors,
Our substance seized unto his highness’ use,
Even to the garments longing to our backs.
HARPOOLE.
Patience, good madame, things at worst will mend,
And if they do not, yet our lives may end.
BISHOP.
Urge it no more, for if an Angel spake,
I swear by sweet saint Peter’s blessed keys,
First goes he to the Tower, then to the stake.
CROAMER.
But by your leave, this warrant doth not stretch
To imprison her.