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In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;
His royal self in judgement comes to hear
K. Hen. You were ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not To hear such flattery now, and in my presence; They are too thin and base to hide offences. To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But, whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I'm sure, Thou hast a cruel nature, and a bloody.
Good man, [To CRANMER.] sit down. Now let me see the proudest
He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:
By all that's holy, he had better starve,
Than but once think his place becomes thee not.
No, sir, it does not please me.
This good man, (few of you deserve that title,)
Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;
My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace
(If there be faith in men,) meant for his trial,
Well, well, my lords, respect him; Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it.
I will say thus much for him, If a prince
Am, for his love and service, so to him.
Make me no more ado, but all embrace him;
Be friends, for shame, my lords.-My lord of Canterbury,
Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory
K. Hen. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons; you shall have
Two noble partners with you; the old duchess of
And lady marquiss Dorset; Will these please you?
K. Hen. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true
The common voice, I see, is verified
Of thee, which says thus, Do my lord of Canterbury
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;
So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. The palace yard.
Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man.
Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: Do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.
[Within.] Good master porter, I belong to the larder. Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, you rogue: Is this a place to roar in?-Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to them. I'll scratch your heads: You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?
Man. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible
Man. Alas, I know not; How gets the tide in?
You did nothing, sir.
Man. I am not Sampson, nor sir Guy, nor Colbrand, to mow them down before me: but, if I spared any, that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to see a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God save her. [Within.] Do you hear, master Porter?
Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.-Keep the door close, sirrah.
Man. What would you have me do?
Port. What should you do, but knock them down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; nere will be father, godfather, and all together.
Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o'my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out, clubs ! when I might see from far some forty truncheoneers draw to her succour, which were the hope of the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to the broomstaff with
me, I defied them still; when suddenly a file of boys behind them, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let them win the work: The devil was amongst them, I think, surely.
Port. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but the Tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure, I have some of them in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come.
Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN.
Cham. Mercy o'me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too, from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves?-Ye have made a fine hand, fellows. There's a trim rabble let in: Are all these
Your faithful friends o'th'suburbs? We shall have
When they pass back from the christening.
Port. An't please your honour We are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a pieces, we have done:
An army cannot rule them.
As I live,
If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
Clap round fines, for neglect: You are lazy knaves;