HOST. Alas, my Lord, that is a desperate course; They have begirt you round about the house; Their meaning is to take you prisoner, And so to send your body unto France. BEDFORD. First shall the Ocean be as dry as sand, Before alive they send me unto France: I’ll have my body first bored like a Sieve, And die as Hector, gainst the Mirmidons, Ere France shall boast Bedford’s their prisoner. Treacherous France, that, gainst the law of arms, Hath here betrayed thy enemy to death. But be assured, my blood shall be revenged Upon the best lives that remains in France.— [Enter a Servant.] Stand back, or else thou run’st upon thy death. MESSENGER. Pardon, my Lord; I come to tell your honour, That they have hired a Neopolitan, Who by his Oratory hath promised them, Without the shedding of one drop of blood, Into their hands safe to deliver you, And therefore craves none but himself may enter And a poor swain that attends on him. [Exit servant.] BEDFORD. A Neopolitan? bid him come in. Were he as cunning in his Eloquence As Cicero, the famous man of Rome, His words would be as chaff against the wind. Sweet tongued Ulysses that made Ajax mad, Were he and his tongue in this speaker’s head, Alive he wins me not; then, tis no conquest dead. [Enter Cromwell like a Neopolitan, and Hodge with him.] CROMWELL. Sir, are you the master of the house? HOST. I am, sir. CROMWELL. By this same token you must leave this place, And leave none but the Earl and I together, And this my Peasant here to tend on us. HOST. With all my heart. God grant, you do some good. [Exit Host. Cromwell shuts the door.] BEDFORD. Now, sir, what’s you will with me? CROMWELL. Intends your honour not to yield your self? BEDFORD. No, good man goose, not while my sword doth last. Is this your eloquence for to persuade me? CROMWELL. My Lord, my eloquence is for to save you. I am not, as you judge, a Neopolitan, But Cromwell, your servant, and an Englishman. BEDFORD. How? Cromwell? not my Farrier’s son? CROMWELL. The same, sir, and am come to succour you. HODGE. Yes, faith, sir; and I am Hodge, your poor Smith. Many a time and oft have I shoed your Dapper Gray. BEDFORD. And what avails it me that thou art here? CROMWELL. It may avail, if you’ll be ruled by me. My Lord, you know the men of Mantua And these Bononians are at deadly strife, And they, my Lord, both love and honour you. Could you but get out of the Mantua port, Then were you safe despite of all their force. BEDFORD. Tut, man, thou talkest of things impossible. Dost thou not see that we are round beset? How, then, is it possible we should escape? CROMWELL. By force we cannot, but by policy. Put on the apparel here that Hodge doth wear, And give him yours—the States, they know you not, For, as I think, they never saw your face— And at a watch-word must I call them in, And will desire, that we safe may pass To Mantua, where I’ll say my business lies. How doth your Honor like of this devise?