condemn him so,
But he hath always been reputed loyal:
And in my knowledge I can say thus much,
That he is virtuous, wise, and honourable.
If any way his conscience be seduced,
To waver in his faith, I'll send for him,
And school him privately; if that serve not,
Then afterward you may proceed against him.
Butler, be you the messenger for us,
And will him presently repair to court.

[Exeunt.]

SIR JOHN.
How now, my lord, why stand you discontent?
In sooth, me thinks the King hath well decreed.

BISHOP.
Yea, yea, sir John, if he would keep his word;
But I perceive he favours him so much,
As this will be to small effect, I fear.

SIR JOHN.
Why, then, I'll tell you what y'are bets to do:
If you suspect the King will be but cold
In reprehending him, send you a process too
To serve upon him: so you may be sure
To make him answer 't, howsoe'er it fall.

 BISHOP.
And well remembered! I will have it so.
A Sumner shall be sent about it straight.

[Exit.]

SIR JOHN.
Yea, do so. In the mean space this remains
For kind sir John of Wrotham, honest Jack.
Me thinks the purse of gold the Bishop gave
Made a good show; it had a tempting look.
Beshrew me, but my fingers' ends to itch
To be upon those rudduks. Well, tis thus:
I am not as the world does take me for;
If ever wolf were clothed in sheep's coat,
Then I am he,—old huddle and twang, yfaith,
A priest in show, but in plain terms a thief.
Yet, let me tell you too, an honest thief,
One that will take it where it may be spared,
And spend it freely in good fellowship.
I have as many shapes as Proteus had,
That still, when any villainy is done,
There may be none suspect it was sir John.
Besides, to comfort me,—for what's this life,
Except the crabbed bitterness thereof,
Be sweetened now and then with lechery?—
I have my Doll, my concubine, as twere,
To frolic with, a lusty bouncing girl.
But whilst I loiter here, the gold may scape,
And that must not be so. It is mine own;
Therefore, I'll meet him on his way to court,
And shrive him of it: there will be the sport.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE III. Kent. An outer court before lord Cobham's house.

[Enter three or four poor people: some soldiers, some old men.]

FIRST.
God help! God help! there's law for punishing,
But there's no law for our necessity:
There be more stocks to set poor soldiers in,
Than there be houses to relieve them at.

OLD MAN.
Faith, housekeeping decays in every place,
Even as Saint Peter writ, still worse and worse.

FOURTH. Master mayor of Rochester has given commandment, that none shall go abroad out of the parish; and they have set an order down forsooth, what every poor householder must give towards our relief: where there be some ceased, I may say to you, had almost as much need to beg as we.

FIRST.
It is a hard world the while.

OLD MAN.
If a poor man come to a door to ask for God's sake,
they ask him for a license, or a certificate from a
Justice.

SECOND. Faith we have none but what we bear upon our bodies, our maimed limbs, God help us.

FOURTH.
And yet, as lame as I am, I'll with the king into France,
if I can crawl but a shipboard. I had rather be slain in
France, than starve in England.

OLD MAN. Ha, were I but as lusty as I was at the battle of Shrewbury, I would not do as I do: but we are now come to the good lord Cobham's, to the best man to the poor that is in all Kent.

FOURTH.
God bless him! there be but few such.

[Enter Lord Cobham with Harpoole.]

COBHAM.
Thou peevish, froward man, what wouldst thou have?

HARPOOLE.
This pride, this pride, brings all to beggary.
I served your father, and your grandfather;
Show me such two men now!
No! No! Your backs, your backs, the devil and pride,
Has cut the throat of all good housekeeping.—
They were the best Yeomens' masters,
That ever were in England.

COBHAM.
Yea, except thou have a crew of seely knaves
And sturdy rogues still feeding at my gate,
There is no hospitality with thee.

HARPOOLE. They may sit at the gat well enough, but the devil of any thing you give them, except they will eat stones.

COBHAM.
Tis long, then, of such hungry knaves as you.

[Pointing to the beggars.]

Yea, sir, here's your retinue; your guests be come.
They know their hours, I warrant you.

OLD MAN.
God bless your honour! God save the good Lord Cobham
And all his house!

SOLDIER.
Good your honour, bestow your blessed alms
Upon poor men.

COBHAM.
Now, sir, here be your Alms knights. Now are you
As safe as the Emperour.

HARPOOLE.
My Alms knights! nay, th' are yours.
It is a shame for you, and I'll stand too 't;
Your foolish alms maintains more vagabonds,
Than all the noblemen in Kent beside.
Out, you rogues, you knaves! work for your livings!—
Alas, poor men! O Lord, they may beg their hearts out,
There's no more charity amongst men than amongst
So many mastiff dogs!—What make you here,
You needy knaves? Away, away, you villains.

SECOND SOLDIER.
I beseech you, sir, be good to us.

COBHAM. Nay, nay, they know thee well enough. I think that all the beggars in this land are thy acquaintance. Go bestow your alms; none will control you, sir.

HARPOOLE. What should I give them? you are grown so beggarly, you have scarce a bit of bread to give at your door. You talk of your religion so long, that you have banished charity from amongst you; a man may make a flax shop in your kitchen chimneys, for any fire there is stirring.

COBHAM. If thou wilt give them nothing, send them hence: let them not stand here starving in the cold.

HARPOOLE. Who! I drive them hence? If I drive poor men from your door, I'll be hanged; I know not what I may come to my self. Yea, God help you, poor knaves; ye see the world, yfaith! Well, you had a mother: well, God be with thee, good Lady; thy soul's at rest. She gave more in shirts and smocks to poor children, than you spend in your house, & yet you live a beggar too.

COBHAM. Even the worst deed that ere my mother did was in relieving such a fool as thou.

HARPOOLE. Yea, yea, I am a fool still. With all your wit you will die a beggar; go too.

COBHAM. Go, you old fool; give the poor people something. Go in, poor men, into the inner court, and take such alms as there is to be had.

SOLDIER.
God bless your honor.

HARPOOLE. Hang you, rogues, hang you; there's nothing but misery amongst you; you fear no law, you.

[Exit.]

OLD MAN. God bless you, good master Rafe, God save your life; you are good to the poor still.

[Enter the Lord Powis disguised, and shroud himself.]

COBHAM.
What fellow's yonder comes along