COBHAM.
My liege, if any breathe, that dares come forth,
And say my life in any of these points
Deserves th'attaindor of ignoble thoughts,
Here stand I, craving no remorse at all,
But even the utmost rigor may be shown.
KING.
Let it suffice; we know your loyalty.
What have you there?
COBHAM.
A deed of clemency;
Your Highness' pardon for Lord Powis' life,
Which I did beg, and you, my noble Lord,
Of gracious favour did vouchsafe to grant.
KING.
But yet it is not signed with our hand.
COBHAM.
Not yet, my Liege.
[One ready with pen and ink.]
KING.
The fact, you say, was done,
Not of prepensed malice, but by chance.
COBHAM.
Upon mine honor so, no otherwise.
KING.
There is his pardon; bid him make amends,
[Writes.]
And cleanse his soul to God for his offence.
What we remit, is but the body's scourge--
[Enter Bishop.]
How now, Lord Bishop?
BISHOP.
Justice, dread Sovereign!
As thou art King, so grant I may have justice.
KING.
What means this exclamation? let us know.
BISHOP.
Ah, my good Lord, the state's abused,
And our decrees most shamefully profaned.
KING.
How? or by whom?
BISHOP.
Even by this heretic,
This Jew, this Traitor to your majesty.
COBHAM.
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