Gar. My lord, because we have business of more moment,[815]
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, 55
You shall know many dare accuse you boldly,
More than, I fear, you are provided for.
Cran. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;[816]
You are always my good friend; if your will pass,
I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, 60
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, 65
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.
Gar. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary; 70
That's the plain truth: your painted gloss discovers,
To men that understand you, words and weakness.[817]
Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,[818]
By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,
However faulty, yet should find respect 75
For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty[819]
To load a falling man.
Gar. Good master secretary,[820]
I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst
Of all this table, say so.
Crom. Why, my lord?
Gar. Do not I know you for a favourer 80
Of this new sect? ye are not sound.
Crom. Not sound?
Gar. Not sound, I say.
Crom. Would you were half so honest!
Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears.