Gard. My Lord, my Lord, you are a Sectary,
That's the plaine truth; your painted glosse discouers
To men that vnderstand you, words and weaknesse

Crom. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little,
By your good fauour, too sharpe; Men so Noble,
How euer faulty, yet should finde respect
For what they haue beene: 'tis a cruelty,
To load a falling man

Gard. Good M[aster]. Secretary,
I cry your Honour mercie; you may worst
Of all this Table say so

Crom. Why my Lord?
Gard. Doe not I know you for a Fauourer
Of this new Sect? ye are not sound

Crom. Not sound?
Gard. Not sound I say

Crom. Would you were halfe so honest:
Mens prayers then would seeke you, not their feares

Gard. I shall remember this bold Language

Crom. Doe.
Remember your bold life too

Cham. This is too much;