BISHOP.
No, turn her out of doors,
[Lord Warden and Old-castle whisper.]
Even as she is, and lead him to the Tower,
With guard enough for fear of rescuing.
LADY COBHAM.
O, God requite thee, thou blood-thirsty man.
COBHAM.
May it not be, my Lord of Rochester?
Wherein have I incurred your hate so far,
That my appeal unto the King’s denied?
BISHOP.
No hate of mine, but power of holy church,
Forbids all favor to false heretics.
COBHAM.
Your private malice, more than public power,
Strikes most at me, but with my life it ends.
HARPOOLE.
O that I had the Bishop in that fear,
[Aside.]
That once I had his Sumner by our selves!