_Simpcox._ Born blind, an’t please your grace. _Wife._ Ay, indeed, was he. _Suf._ What woman is this? _Wife._ His wife, an’t like your worship. _Glo._ Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told. _K. Hen._ Where wert thou born? _Simp._ At Berwick in the north, an’t like your grace. _K. Hen._ Poor soul, God’s goodness hath been great to thee: Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass, But still remember what the Lord hath done. _Q. Margaret._ Tell me, good fellow, camest thou here by chance, Or of devotion, to this holy shrine? _Simp._ God knows, of pure devotion; being call’d A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep, By good St. Alban, who said, “Simpcox, come, Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.” _Wife._ Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him so. _Car._ What, art thou lame? _Simp._ Ay, God Almighty help me! _Suf._ How camest thou so? _Simp._ A fall off of a tree. _Wife._ A plum-tree, master. _Glo._ How long hast thou been blind? _Simp._ O, born so, master. _Glo._ What, and wouldst climb a tree? _Simp._ But that in all my life, when I was a youth. _Wife._ Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. _Glo._ Mass, thou lovedst plums well, that wouldst venture so. _Simp._ Alas, good master, my wife desired some damsons, And made me climb, with danger of my life. _Glo._ A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve. Let me see thine eyes: wink now: now open them: In my opinion yet thou seest not well. _Simp._ Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and St. Alban. _Glo._ Say’st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of? _Simp._ Red, master; red as blood. _Glo._ Why, that’s well said. What colour is my gown of? _Simp._ Black, forsooth; coal-black as jet. _K. Hen._ Why then, thou know’st what colour jet is of? _Suf._ And yet, I think, jet did he never see. _Glo._ But cloaks, and gowns, before this day a many. _Wife._ Never, before this day, in all his life. _Glo._ Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name? _Simp._ Alas, master, I know not. _Glo._ What’s his name? _Simp._ I know not. _Glo._ Nor his? _Simp._ No, indeed, master. _Glo._ What’s thine own name? _Simp._ Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master. _Glo._ Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names, as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible. My lords, St. Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again?