SUFFOLK.
Nay, my lord,
That cannot be. You are a councillor,
And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.
GARDINER.
My lord, because we have business of more moment,
We will be short with you. ’Tis his Highness’ pleasure
And our consent, for better trial of you,
From hence you be committed to the Tower,
Where, being but a private man again,
You shall know many dare accuse you boldly—
More than, I fear, you are provided for.
CRANMER.
Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you.
You are always my good friend. If your will pass,
I shall both find your lordship judge and juror,
You are so merciful. I see your end:
’Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord,
Become a churchman better than ambition.
Win straying souls with modesty again;
Cast none away. That I shall clear myself,
Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,
I make as little doubt as you do conscience
In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,
But reverence to your calling makes me modest.
GARDINER.
My lord, my lord, you are a sectary,
That’s the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers,
To men that understand you, words and weakness.
CROMWELL.
My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,
By your good favour, too sharp. Men so noble,
However faulty, yet should find respect
For what they have been. ’Tis a cruelty
To load a falling man.
GARDINER.
Good master secretary,
I cry your honour mercy: you may worst
Of all this table say so.
CROMWELL.
Why, my lord?
GARDINER.
Do not I know you for a favourer
Of this new sect? Ye are not sound.
CROMWELL.
Not sound?
GARDINER.
Not sound, I say.