[Enter Suffolk, Bishop of Rochester, Butler, parson of
Wrotham.]
SUFFOLK.
Now, my lord Bishop, take free liberty
To speak your mind: what is your suit to us?
BISHOP.
My noble Lord, no more than what you know,
And have been oftentimes invested with:
Grievous complaints have past between the lips
Of envious persons to upbraid the Clergy,
Some carping at the livings which we have,
And others spurning at the ceremonies
That are of ancient custom in the church.
Amongst the which, Lord Cobham is a chief:
What inconvenience may proceed hereof,
Both to the King and to the commonwealth,
May easily be discerned, when like a frenzy
This innovation shall possess their minds.
These upstarts will have followers, to uphold
Their damned opinion, more than Harry shall
To undergo his quarrel gainst the French.
SUFFOLK.
What proof is there against them to be had,
That what you say the law may justify?
BISHOP.
They give themselves the name of Protestants,
And meet in fields and solitary groves.
SIR JOHN.
Was ever heard, my Lord, the like til now?
That thieves and rebels—sblood, heretics,
Plain heretics, I’ll stand tooth to their teeth—
Should have, to colour their vile practices,
A title of such worth as Protestant?
[Enter one with a letter.]
SUFFOLK.
O, but you must not swear; it ill becomes
One of your coat to rap out bloody oaths.
BISHOP.
Pardon him, good my Lord, it is his zeal;
An honest country prelate, who laments
To see such foul disorder in the church.
SIR JOHN.
There’s one—they call him Sir John Old-castle—
He has not his name for naught: for like a castle
Doth he encompass them within his walls;
But till that castle be subverted quite,
We ne’er shall be at quiet in the realm.