BISHOP.
No, turn her out of doors,
[Lord Warden and Old-castle whisper.]
Even as she is, and lead him to the Tower,
With guard enough for fear of rescuing.
LADY COBHAM.
O, God requite thee, thou blood-thirsty man.
COBHAM.
May it not be, my Lord of Rochester?
Wherein have I incurred your hate so far,
That my appeal unto the King's denied?
BISHOP.
No hate of mine, but power of holy church,
Forbids all favor to false heretics.
COBHAM.
Your private malice, more than public power,
Strikes most at me, but with my life it ends.
HARPOOLE.
O that I had the Bishop in that fear,
[Aside.]
That once I had his Sumner by our selves!
CROAMER.
My Lord, yet grant one suit unto us all,
That this same ancient serving man may wait
Upon my lord his master in the Tower.
BISHOP.
This old iniquity, this heretic?
That, in contempt of our church discipline,
Compelled my Sumner to devour his process!
Old Ruffian past-grace, upstart schismatic,
Had not the King prayed us to pardon ye,
Ye had fried for it, ye grizzled heretic.
HARPOOLE.
Sblood, my lord Bishop, ye do me wrong. I am
neither heretic nor puritan, but of the old church:
I'll swear, drink ale, kiss a wench, go to mass, eat
fish all Lent, and fast Fridays with cakes and wine,
fruit and spicery, shrive me of my old sins afore
Easter, and begin new afore whitsontide.
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