No, wee'l no Bullens: Speedily I wish
To heare from Rome. The Marchionesse of Penbroke?
Nor. He's discontented

Suf. Maybe he heares the King
Does whet his Anger to him

Sur. Sharpe enough,
Lord for thy Iustice

Car. The late Queenes Gentlewoman?
A Knights Daughter
To be her Mistris Mistris? The Queenes, Queene?
This Candle burnes not cleere, 'tis I must snuffe it,
Then out it goes. What though I know her vertuous
And well deseruing? yet I know her for
A spleeny Lutheran, and not wholsome to
Our cause, that she should lye i'th' bosome of
Our hard rul'd King. Againe, there is sprung vp
An Heretique, an Arch-one; Cranmer, one
Hath crawl'd into the fauour of the King,
And is his Oracle

Nor. He is vex'd at something.
Enter King, reading of a Scedule.

Sur. I would 'twer somthing y would fret the string,
The Master-cord on's heart

Suf. The King, the King