WILLIAM. No Spain in our beds--that were worse than all. I have been there with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know. I hate Spain. A PEASANT. But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war against the Queen's Grace? WYATT. No, my friend; war _for_ the Queen's Grace--to save her from herself and Philip--war against Spain. And think not we shall be alone--thousands will flock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is on our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is on our side. The King of France is with us; the King of Denmark is with us; the world is with us--war against Spain! And if we move not now, yet it will be known that we have moved; and if Philip come to be King, O, my God! the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, the stake, the fire. If we move not now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps, creeps snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at all; and ye know, my masters, that wherever Spain hath ruled she hath wither'd all beneath her. Look at the New World--a paradise made hell; the red man, that good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs; and here, nearer home, the Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no more--only this, their lot is yours. Forward to London with me! forward to London! If ye love your liberties or your skins, forward to London! CROWD. Forward to London! A Wyatt! a Wyatt! WYATT. But first to Rochester, to take the guns From out the vessels lying in the river. Then on. A PEASANT. Ay, but I fear we be too few, Sir Thomas. WYATT. Not many yet. The world as yet, my friend, Is not half-waked; but every parish tower Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass, And pour along the land, and swoll'n and fed With indraughts and side-currents, in full force Roll upon London. CROWD. A Wyatt! a Wyatt! Forward! KNYVETT. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth? WYATT. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. KNYVETT. Or Lady Jane? WYATT. No, poor soul; no. Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance That I shall never look upon you more. KNYVETT. Come, now, you're sonnetting again. WYATT. Not I. I'll have my head set higher in the state; Or--if the Lord God will it--on the stake. [_Exeunt_. SCENE II.--GUILDHALL. SIR THOMAS WHITE (The Lord Mayor), LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL, ALDERMEN _and_ CITIZENS. WHITE. I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards. HOWARD. Ay, all in arms. [_Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall_. Why do they hurry out there? WHITE. My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple, Your apple eats the better. Let them go. They go like those old Pharisees in John Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards, Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent. When will her Grace be here?