[One ready with pen and ink.]

KING.
The fact, you say, was done,
Not of prepensed malice, but by chance.

COBHAM.
Upon mine honor so, no otherwise.

KING.
There is his pardon; bid him make amends,

[Writes.]

And cleanse his soul to God for his offence.
What we remit, is but the body's scourge--

[Enter Bishop.]

How now, Lord Bishop?

BISHOP.
Justice, dread Sovereign!
As thou art King, so grant I may have justice.

KING.
What means this exclamation? let us know.

BISHOP.