BUSHY.
The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,
But none returns. For us to levy power
Proportionable to the enemy
Is all unpossible.

GREEN.
Besides, our nearness to the king in love
Is near the hate of those love not the king.

BAGOT.
And that is the wavering commons; for their love
Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

BUSHY.
Wherein the king stands generally condemn'd.

BAGOT.
If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the king.

GREEN.
Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle.
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

BUSHY.
Thither will I with you; for little office
Will the hateful commons perform for us,