CROAMER.
A merry, mad, conceited knave, my lord.
HARPOOLE.
That knave was simply put upon the Bishop.
BISHOP.
Well, God forgive him and I pardon him.
Let him attend his master in the Tower,
For I in charity wish his soul no hurt.
COBHAM.
God bless my soul from such cold charity!
BISHOP.
Too th' Tower with him, and when my leisure serves,
I will examine him of Articles.
Look, my lord Warden, as you have in charge,
The Shrive perform his office.
LORD WARDEN.
Yes, my lord.
[Enter the Sumner with books.]
BISHOP.
What bringst thou there? what, books of heresy?
SUMNER.
Yea, my lord, here's not a latin book, no, not so much
as our lady's Psalter. Here's the Bible, the testament,
the Psalms in meter, the sickman's salve, the treasure of
gladness, and all in English, not so much but the Almanac's
English.
BISHOP.
Away with them, to the fire with them, Clun!
Now fie upon these upstart heretics.
All English! burn them, burn them quickly, Clun!
HARPOOLE.
But do not, Sumner, as you'll answer it, for I have there
English books, my lord, that I'll not part with for your
Bishopric: Bevis of Hampton, Owlglass, the Friar and
the Boy, Eleanor Rumming, Robin hood, and other such
godly stories, which if ye burn, by this flesh, I'll make ye
drink their ashes in Saint Marget's ale.
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