MOR. What means these wretched miscreants, To make a spoil of their own countrymen? Unnatural rebels: whatsoe'er By foreign foes may seem no whit so strange, As Englishmen to trouble England thus. Well may I term it incest to the land, Like that foul lawless force and violence, Which Cyniras did offer to his child. O happy time, from all such troubles free, What now, alas, is like to be the end Of this attempt, but that so long as they Are glutted all with blood, they bathe therein. [_Exit._ _Enter_ NOBS _with a Fleming_. Sirrah, here it is set down by our captains That as many of you as cannot say bread and cheese In good and perfect English, ye die for it: And that was the cause so many strangers Did die in Smithfield. Let us hear You say bread and cheese. FLEM. _Broed[445] and keyse._ [_Exeunt both._ FOOTNOTES: [442] [Old copy, _behind him, with them and Morton_; but Morton does not enter till a little later.] [443] [This direction is very imperfectly given in the old copy.] [444] [Old copy, _strike_.] ACTUS TERTIUS. _Enter_ KING, LORD MAYOR, SIR JOHN NEWTON, _Two Sergeants, with Guard and Gentlemen_. K. Sir Newton and Lord Mayor, This wrong that I am offered, This open and unnatural injury, A king to be thus hardly handled Of his own people, and no other foes, But such as have been brought up and bred in his Own bosom: nourished with his tender care. To be thus robbed of honour and of friends; Thus daunted with continual frights and fears; Haled on to what mishap I cannot tell; More hard mishap than had of like been mine. Had I not marked been to be a king. L. MAYOR. It shall become your grace, most gracious lord, To bear the mind in this afflicted time, As other kings and lords hath done before, Armed with sufferance and magnanimity: The one to make you resolute for chance, The other forward in your resolution. The greatest wrong this rout hath done your grace, Amongst a many other wicked parts, Is in frighting your worthy lady mother, Making foul slaughter of your noblemen, Burning up books and matters of records, Defacing houses of hostelity:[446] Saint John's in Smithfield, the Savoy, and such like, And beating down, like wolves, the better sort. The greatest wrong in my opinion is, That in honour doth your person touch, I mean they call your majesty to parley, And overbear you with a multitude, As if you were a vassal, not a king. O wretched minds of vile and barbarous men, For whom the heavens have secret wreak in store. But, my lord (with reverence and with pardon too), Why comes your grace into Smithfield near the crew, Unarm'd and guarded with so small a train?