Teare the Supplication.

Away, base Cullions: Suffolke let them goe

All. Come, let's be gone.
Enter.

Queene. My Lord of Suffolke, say, is this the guise?
Is this the Fashions in the Court of England?
Is this the Gouernment of Britaines Ile?
And this the Royaltie of Albions King?
What, shall King Henry be a Pupill still,
Vnder the surly Glosters Gouernance?
Am I a Queene in Title and in Stile,
And must be made a Subiect to a Duke?
I tell thee Poole, when in the Citie Tours
Thou ran'st a-tilt in honor of my Loue,
And stol'st away the Ladies hearts of France;
I thought King Henry had resembled thee,
In Courage, Courtship, and Proportion:
But all his minde is bent to Holinesse,
To number Aue-Maries on his Beades:
His Champions, are the Prophets and Apostles,
His Weapons, holy Sawes of sacred Writ,
His Studie is his Tilt-yard, and his Loues
Are brazen Images of Canonized Saints.
I would the Colledge of the Cardinalls
Would chuse him Pope, and carry him to Rome,
And set the Triple Crowne vpon his Head;
That were a State fit for his Holinesse