O, the Diuell take such Couzeners, God forgiue me,
Good Vncle tell your tale, for I haue done

Wor. Nay, if you haue not, too't againe,
Wee'l stay your leysure

Hot. I haue done insooth

Wor. Then once more to your Scottish Prisoners.
Deliuer them vp without their ransome straight,
And make the Dowglas sonne your onely meane
For powres in Scotland: which for diuers reasons
Which I shall send you written, be assur'd
Will easily be granted you, my Lord.
Your Sonne in Scotland being thus imploy'd,
Shall secretly into the bosome creepe
Of that same noble Prelate, well belou'd,
The Archbishop

Hot. Of Yorke, is't not?
Wor. True, who beares hard
His Brothers death at Bristow, the Lord Scroope.
I speake not this in estimation,
As what I thinke might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted, and set downe,
And onely stayes but to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on

Hot. I smell it:
Vpon my life, it will do wond'rous well