SUFFOLK.
What proof is there against them to be had,
That what you say the law may justify?
BISHOP.
They give themselves the name of Protestants,
And meet in fields and solitary groves.
SIR JOHN.
Was ever heard, my Lord, the like til now?
That thieves and rebels--sblood, heretics,
Plain heretics, I'll stand tooth to their teeth--
Should have, to colour their vile practices,
A title of such worth as Protestant?
[Enter one with a letter.]
SUFFOLK.
O, but you must not swear; it ill becomes
One of your coat to rap out bloody oaths.
BISHOP.
Pardon him, good my Lord, it is his zeal;
An honest country prelate, who laments
To see such foul disorder in the church.
SIR JOHN.
There's one--they call him Sir John Old-castle--
He has not his name for naught: for like a castle
Doth he encompass them within his walls;
But till that castle be subverted quite,
We ne'er shall be at quiet in the realm.
BISHOP.
That is not our suit, my Lord, that he be ta'en,
And brought in question for his heresy.
Beside, two letters brought me out of Wales,
Wherein my Lord Hereford writes to me,
What tumult and sedition was begun,
About the Lord Cobham at the Sises there,
(For they had much ado the calm the rage),
And that the valiant Herbert is there slain.
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