KING. That were a shame indeed; no, sit again, And you shall have my counsel in this case. If you can find no way to kill this King, Then you shall see how I can further ye: Scroop’s way of poison was indifferent, But yet, being bed-fellow unto the King, And unsuspected sleeping in his bosom, In mine opinion, that’s the likelier way, For such false friends are able to do much, And silent night is Treason’s fittest friend. Now, Cambridge, in his setting hence for France, Or by the way, or as he goes abroad, To do the deed, what was indifferent too, Yet somewhat doubtful, might I speak my mind. For many reasons needless now to urge. Mary, Lord Gray came something near the point: To have the King at counsel, and there murder him, As Caesar was, amongst his dearest friends: None like to that, if all were of his mind. Tell me, oh tell me, you, bright honor’s stains, For which of all my kindnesses to you, Are ye become thus traitors to your king, And France must have the spoil of harry’s life? ALL. Oh pardon us, dread lord. [All kneeling.] KING. How, pardon ye? that were a sin indeed. Drag them to death, which justly they deserve, [They lead them away.] And France shall dearly buy this villainy, So soon as we set footing on her breast. God have the praise for our deliverance; And next, our thanks, Lord Cobham, is to thee, True perfect mirror of nobility. [Exeunt.] ACT V. SCENE II. A high road near St. Albans. [Enter Priest and Doll.] SIR JOHN. Come, Doll, come; be merry, wench. Farewell, Kent, we are not fond for thee. Be lusty, my lass, come, for Lancashire, We must nip the Boung for these crowns. DOLL. Why, is all the gold spent already that you had the other day? SIR JOHN. Gone, Doll, gone; flown, spent, vanished: the devil, drink and the dice has devoured all. DOLL. You might have left me in Kent, that you might, until you had been better provided, I could have stayed at Cobham. SIR JOHN. No, Doll, no, I’ll none of that; Kent’s too hot, Doll, Kent’s too hot. The weathercock of Wrotham will crow no longer: we have pluckt him, he has lost his feathers; I have pruned him bare, left him thrice; is moulted, is moulted, wench. DOLL. Faith, sir John, I might have gone to service again; old master Harpoole told me he would provide me a mistress. SIR JOHN. Peace, Doll, peace. Come, mad wench, I’ll make thee an honest woman; we’ll into Lancashire to our friends: the troth is, I’ll marry thee. We want but a little money to buy us a horse, and to spend by the way; the next sheep that comes shall lose his fleece, we’ll have these crowns, wench, I warrant thee. [Enter the Irish man with his master slain.] Stay, who comes here? some Irish villain, me thinks, that has slain a man, and draws him out of the way to rifle him. Stand close, Doll, we’ll see the end. [The Irish man falls to rifle his master.]