MORE.
No ear to choose for every trivial noise
but mine, and in so full a time? Away!
You wrong me, Master Shrieve: dispose of him
At your own pleasure; send the knave to Newgate.
FAULKNER.
To Newgate! ’sblood, Sir Thomas More, I appeal, I appeal from
Newgate to any of the two worshipful Counters.
MORE.
Fellow, whose man are you, that are thus lusty?
FAULKNER.
My name’s Jack Faulkner; I serve, next under God and my prince,
Master Morris, secretary to my Lord of Winchester.
MORE.
A fellow of your hair is very fit
To be a secretary’s follower!
FAULKNER. I hope so, my lord. The fray was between the Bishops’ men of Ely and Winchester; and I could not in honor but part them. I thought it stood not with my reputation and degree to come to my questions and answers before a city justice: I knew I should to the pot.
MORE.
Thou hast been there, it seems, too late already.
FAULKNER. I know your honor is wise and so forth; and I desire to be only cathecized or examined by you, my noble Lord Chancellor.
MORE.
Sirrah, sirrah, you are a busy dangerous ruffian.
FAULKNER.
Ruffian!