Roch. They give themselves the Names of Protestants, And meet in Fields and folitary Groves.

S. John. Was ever heard, my Lord, the like 'till now? That Thieves and Rebels, 'sbould Hereticks, Plain Hereticks, I'll stand to't to their Teeth, Should have, to colour their vile Practices, A Title of such worth, as Proteftant?

Enter one with a Letter.

Suf. O but you must not swear, it ill becomes

One of your Coat, to rap out bloody Oaths.
Roch. Pardon him, good my Lord, it is his Zeal.

An hoceft Country Prelate, who laments
To fee fuch foul disorder in the Church.

:

S. John. There's one they call him Sir John Oldcastle.. He has not his Name for nought: For like a Caftle Doth he encompass them within his Walls, But 'till that Castle be fubverted quite,

We ne'er shall be at quiet in the Realm.

Roch. This is our Suit, my Lord, that he be ta'en

And brought in question for his Herefie:
Beside, two Letters brought me out of Wales,
Wherein my Lord of Hertford writes to me,
What tumult and fedition was begun,
About the Lord Cobham, at the Sizes there,
For they had much ado to calm the Rage,
And that the valiant Herbert is there slain.

Suf A Fire that must be quench'd. Well say no more,
The King anon goes to the Council Chamber,
There to debate of Matters touching France,
As he doth pass by, I'll inform his Grace
Concerning your Petition. Master Butler,
If I forget, do you remember me.
But. I will my Lord.

Roch. Not as a Recompence,

But as a Token of our Love to you, [Offers him a Purse.

By me, my Lords, the Clergy doth present
This Purse, and in it full a thousand Angels,

Praying your Lordship to accept their Gift.

Suf. I thank them, my Lord Bishop, for their love,

But will not take their Mony, if you please
To give it to this Gentleman, you may.

Roch

Roch. Sir, then we crave your furtherance herein.
But. The best I can, my Lord of Rochester.
Roch. Nay, pray take it, trust me you shall.
S. John. Were ye all three upon New Market Heath,
You thould not need strain curt'fie who should ha't,
Sir John would quickly rid ye of that case.

Suf. The King is coming: Fear ye not, my Lord,
The very first thing I will break with him
Shall be about your matter.

Enter the King, and Earl of Huntington in talk.

King. My Lord of Suffolk,
Was it not faid the Clergy did refuse
To lend us Mony toward our Wars in France ?
Suf. It was my Lord, but very wrongfully.
King. I know it was: For Huntington here tells me

They have been very bountiful of late.

Saf. And still they vow, my gracious Lord, to be so,
Hoping your Majesty will think on them
As of your loving Subjects, and suppress
All fuch malicious Errors as begin

To spot their calling, and disturb the Church.
King. God elfe forbid: why, Suffolk,
Is there any new Rupture to disquiet them ?

Suf. No new, my Lord, the old is great enough,

And so increasing, as if not cut down,
Will breed a scandal to your Royal State,
And fet your Kingdom quickly in an uproar.
The Kentish Knight, Lord Cobbam, in despight
Of any Law, or spiritual Difcipline,
Maintains this upstart new Religion ftill,
And divers great Assemblies by his means
And private Quarrels are commenc'd abroad,

Asby this Letter more at large, my Liege, it made apparent.

King. We do find it here,

There was in Wales a certain Fray of late
Between two Noblemen. But what of this?
Follows it straight Lord Cobham must be he
Did cause the fame ? I dare be sworn, good Knight,

He never dream'd of any fuch contention.

Rosh. But in his Name the quarrel did begin. About the Opinion which he held, my Liege.

Aa 3

1

King

King. What if he did? was either he in place
To take part with them? or abett them in it?
If brabling Fellows, whose enkindled Blood
Seeths in their fiery Veins, will needs go fight,
Making their Quarrels of some words that past
Either of you, or you, amongst their Cups,
Is the Fault yours? or are they guilty of it?

1

Suf. With pardon of your Highness, my dread Lord, Such little Sparks neglected, may in time Grow to a mighty Flame. But that's not all, He doth befide maintain a strange Religion, And will not be compell'd to come to Mass.

Roch. We do beseech you therefore, gracious Prince,

Without Offence unto your Majesty,
We may be bold to use Authority.

King, As how?

Roch. To fummon him unto the Arches,
Where fuch Offences have their Punishment.

King. To answer perfonally, is that your meaning?
Roch. It is, my Lord.

King. How if he appeal?

Roch. My Lord, he cannot in such a case as this,
Suf. Not where Religion is the Plea, my Lord.
King. I took it always, that our felf stood on't

'As a fufficient Refuge: Unto whom
Not any but might lawfully Appeal.
But we'll not argue now upon that point.
For Sir John Oldcastle, whom you accuse,
Let me intreat you to dispence a while
With your high Title of Preheminence.
Report did never yet condemn him so,
But he hath always been reputed Loyal:
And in my Knowlewge I can say thus much,
That he is virtuous, wife, and honourable.
If any way his Conscience be seduc'd
To waver in his Faith, I'll fend for him,
And fchool him privately: If that serve not,
Then afterward you may proceed against him.

Butler, be you the Messenger for us,
And will him presently repair to Court.

[In Scorn.

[Exeunt.

S. John.

S. John. How now my Lord? why stand you discontent? Infooth, methinks, the King hath well decreed.

Roch. Ay, ay, Sir John, if he would keep his Word:
But I perceive he favours him so much
As this will be to small Effect, I fear.

S. John. Why then I'll tell you what you're best to do:

If you suspect the King will be but cold
In reprehending him, send you a Process too
To serve upon him, so you may be sure
To make him answer't, howsoever it fall.

Roch. And well remembred, I will have it so,

A Sumner shall be sent about it straight.

[Exit.

S. John. Yea, do fo. In the mean space this remains
For kind Sir John of Wrotham, honeft Jack.
Methinks the Purse of Gold the Bishop gave
Made a good shew, it had a tempting Look:
Beshrew me, but my Fingers ends do itch
To be upon those golden Ruddocks. Well 'tis thus;
I am not as the World doth take me for:
If ever Wolf were cloathed in Sheep's Coat,
Then I am he; old huddle and twang 'ifaith:
A Priest in shew, but, in plain Terms, a Thief:
Yet let me tell you too, an honest Thief;
One that will take it where it may be spar'd,
And spend it freely in good Fellowship.
I have as many Shapes as Proteus had,
That still when any Villany is done,
There may none suspect it was Sir John.
Befides, to comfort me, (for what's this Life,
Except the crabbed Bitterness thereof
Be sweetned now and then with Letchery?)
I have my Doll, my Concubine as 'twere,
To frolick with, a lusty bouncing Girl.
But whilft I loiter here, the Gold may scape,
And that must not be so: It is mine own.
Therefore I'll meet him on his way to Court,
And shrive him of it, there will be the sport.

[Exit.

Enter four poor People, some Soldiers, Some old Men. 1. God help, God help, there's Law for punishing,

But there's no Law for Neceffity:

A a 4

There

1

1

There be more Stocks to fet poor Soldiers in,
Than there be Houses to relieve them at.

:

Old Man. Ay, House-keeping decays in every place, Even as St. Peter writ, still worse and worse.

2. Master Mayor of Rochester has given command, That none shall go abroad out of the Parish, and has set down an Order forfooth, what every poor Housholder must give for our relief; where there be some sessed, I may say to you, had almost as much need to beg as we.

1. It is a hard World the while.

Old Man. If a poor Man ask at Door for God's sake, they ask him for a Licence or a Certificate from a Justice.

2. Faith we have none, but what we bear upon our Bodies, our maim'd Limbs, Gold help us.

4. And yet as lame as I am, I'll with the King into France, if I can but crawl a Ship-board, I had rather be flain in France, than starve in England.

Old Man. Ha, were I but as lufty as I was at Shrewsbury Bartel, I would not do as I do; but we are now come to the good Lord Cobham's House, the best Man to the Poor in all Kent.

4. God bless him, there be but few such. Enter Cobham with Harpool.

Cob. Thou peevish froward Man, what wouldst thou

have?

Har. This Pride, this Pride, brings all to beggary,

I ferv'd your Father, and your Grandfather,
Shew me such two Men now: No, no,

Your Backs, your Backs; the Devil and Pride
Has cut the Throat of all good House-keeping,
They were the best Yeomens Masters that

Ever were in England.

Cob. Yea, except thou have a crew of filthy Knaves And sturdy Rogues still feeding at my Gate,

There is no Hofpitality with thee.

Har. They may fit at the Gate well enough, but the Devil of any thing you give them, except they'll eat Stones.

Cob. Tis long then of such hungry Knaves as you: Yea, Sir, here's your Retinue, your Guests be come,

They know their Hours, I warrant you.

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