King. But all this while I do not know your age.
Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry humph! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danced the shaking of the sheets with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young lord mayors, ere I die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Majesty, let care vanish, cast it upon thy nobles, it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born.
King. Ha, ha!
Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his like?
Cornwall. Not I, my lord.
Enter the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord Mayor.
King. Lincoln, what news with you?
Lincoln. My gracious lord, have care unto yourself,
For there are traitors here.
All. Traitors? Where? Who?
Eyre. Traitors in my house? God forbid! Where be my officers? I’ll spend my soul, ere my king feel harm.
King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln?