Press forth upon us in our native bounds?
Must we be forced to hansell our sharp blades
In England here, which we prepared for France?
Well, a God's name be it! What's their number, say,
Or who's the chief commander of this rout?

HUNTINGTON.
Their number is not known, as yet, my Lord,
But tis reported Sir John Old-castle
Is the chief man on whom they do depend.

KING.
How, the Lord Cobham?

HUNTINGTON.
Yes, my gracious Lord.

BISHOP.
I could have told your majesty as much
Before he went, but that I saw your Grace
Was too much blinded by his flattery.

SUFFOLK.
Send post, my Lord, to fetch him back again.

BUTLER.
Traitor unto his country, how he smoothed,
And seemed as innocent as Truth it self!

KING.