Now, Catesby, what says your lord to my request?
CATESBY.
He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord,
To visit him tomorrow or next day.
He is within, with two right reverend fathers,
Divinely bent to meditation;
And in no worldly suits would he be moved
To draw him from his holy exercise.
BUCKINGHAM.
Return, good Catesby, to the gracious Duke;
Tell him myself, the Mayor and aldermen,
In deep designs, in matter of great moment,
No less importing than our general good,
Are come to have some conference with his Grace.
CATESBY.
I’ll signify so much unto him straight.
[Exit.]
BUCKINGHAM.
Ah ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward!
He is not lolling on a lewd love-bed,
But on his knees at meditation;
Not dallying with a brace of courtesans,
But meditating with two deep divines;
Not sleeping, to engross his idle body,
But praying, to enrich his watchful soul.
Happy were England would this virtuous prince
Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof.
But sure I fear we shall not win him to it.
MAYOR.
Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay!
BUCKINGHAM.
I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again.
Enter Catesby.
Now, Catesby, what says his Grace?