If brabling fellows, whose inkindled blood,
Seethes in their fiery veins, will needs go fight,
Making their quarrels of some words that past
Either of you, or you, amongst their cups,
Is the fault yours, or are they guilty of it?

SUFFOLK.
With pardon of your Highness, my dread lord,
Such little sparks, neglected, may in time
Grow to a might flame: but that's not all;
He doth, beside, maintain a strange religion,
And will not be compelled to come to mass.

BISHOP.
We do beseech you, therefore, gracious prince,
Without offence unto your majesty,
We may be bold to use authority.

KING.
As how?

BISHOP.
To summon him unto the Arches,
Where such offences have their punishment.

KING.
To answer personally? is that your meaning?

BISHOP.
It is, my lord.