Let him shun castles;
Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains
Than where castles mounted stand.’
[♦] Come, come, my lords;
[70] These oracles are hardly attain’d,
And hardly understood.
The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban’s,
With him the husband of this lovely lady:
[♦] Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry them:
75 A sorry breakfast for my lord protector.