_Buss._ Why then my choice is made.
_Pol._ And mine.
_Omn._ And all.
_Card._ Heaven is itself head of the Holy League;
And all the saints are cov'nanters and Guisards.
_Gui._ What say you, curate?
_Cur._ I hope well, my lord.
_Card._ That is, he hopes you mean to make him abbot,
And he deserves your care of his preferment;
For all his prayers are curses on the government,
And all his sermons libels on the king;
In short, a pious, hearty, factious priest.
_Gui._ All that are here, my friends, shall share my fortunes:
There's spoil, preferments, wealth enough in France;
'Tis but deserve, and have. The Spanish king
Consigns me fifty thousand crowns a-week
To raise, and to foment a civil war.
'Tis true, a pension, from a foreign prince,
Sounds treason in the letter of the law,
But good intentions justify the deed.
_Cur._ Heaven's good; the cause is good; the money's good;
No matter whence it comes.
_Buss._ Our city-bands are twenty thousand strong,
Well-disciplined, well-armed, well-seasoned traitors,
Thick-rinded heads, that leave no room for kernel;
Shop-consciences, of proof against an oath,
Preached up, and ready tined for a rebellion[1].
_Gui._ Why then the noble plot is fit for birth;
And labouring France cries out for midwife hands.
We missed surprising of the king at Blois,
When last the states were held: 'twas oversight;
Beware we make not such another blot.
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