Come hither, lady—nay, sweet wife, forbear To heap one sorrow on another’s neck: Tis grief enough falsely to be accused, And not permitted to acquit my self; Do not thou with thy kind respective tears, Torment thy husband’s heart that bleeds for thee, But be of comfort. God hath help in store For those that put assured trust in him. Dear wife, if they commit me to the Tower, Come up to London to your sister’s house: That being near me, you may comfort me. One solace find I settled in my soul, That I am free from treason’s very thought: Only my conscience for the Gospel’s sake Is cause of all the troubles I sustain. LADY COBHAM. O my dear Lord, what shall betide of us? You to the Tower, and I turned out of doors, Our substance seized unto his highness’ use, Even to the garments longing to our backs. HARPOOLE. Patience, good madame, things at worst will mend, And if they do not, yet our lives may end. BISHOP. Urge it no more, for if an Angel spake, I swear by sweet saint Peter’s blessed keys, First goes he to the Tower, then to the stake. CROAMER. But by your leave, this warrant doth not stretch To imprison her. 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. 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.]