Which reformation must be sudden too,
My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses
Pace 'em not in
their hands to make 'em gentle,
But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur 'em,
Till they obey the
manage. If we suffer,
Out of our easiness and childish pity
To one man's honour, this contagious sickness,
all physic: and what follows then?
Commotions, uproars, with a general taint
Of the whole state: as, of late
days, our neighbours,
The upper Germany, can dearly witness,
Yet freshly pitied in our memories.
My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress
Both of my life and office, I have labour'd,
And with no little
study, that my teaching
And the strong course of my authority
Might go one way, and safely; and the end
ever, to do well: nor is there living,
I speak it with a single heart, my lords,
A man that more detests, more
Both in his private conscience and his place,
Defacers of a public peace, than I do.
heaven, the king may never find a heart
With less allegiance in it! Men that make
Envy and crooked malice
Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships,
That, in this case of justice, my accusers,
what they will, may stand forth face to face,
And freely urge against me.
Nay, my lord,
That cannot be: you are a counsellor,
And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you.
My lord, because we have business of more moment,
We will be short with you. 'Tis his highness' pleasure,
our consent, for better trial of you,
From hence you be committed to the Tower;
Where, being but a private
You shall know many dare accuse you boldly,
More than, I fear, you are provided for.
Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;
You are always my good friend; if your will pass,
I shall both
find your lordship judge and juror,
You are so merciful: I see your end;
'Tis my undoing: love and meekness,
Become a churchman better than ambition:
Win straying souls with modesty again,
Cast none away.
That I shall clear myself,
Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,
I make as little doubt, as you do
In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,
But reverence to your calling makes me modest.
My lord, my lord, you are a sectary,
That's the plain truth: your painted gloss discovers,
To men that understand
you, words and weakness.
My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,
By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,
However faulty, yet
should find respect
For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty
To load a falling man.
Good master secretary,
I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst
Of all this table, say so.
Why, my lord?