So, so;

      These are the limbs o' the plot. No more, I hope?

      A monk o' the Chartreux.

      O, Nicholas Hopkins?

      He.

      My surveyor is false; the o'er-great Cardinal

      Hath show'd him gold; my life is spann'd already.

      I am the shadow of poor Buckingham,

      Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,

      By dark'ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell.

      My life itself, and the best heart of it,

      Thanks you for this great care. I stood i' the level

      Of a full-charg'd confederacy, and give thanks

      To you that chok'd it. Let be call'd before us

      That gentleman of Buckingham's; in person

      I'll hear his confessions justify;

      And point by point the treasons of his master

      He shall again relate.

      Nay, we must longer kneel; I am a suitor.

      Arise, and take place by us. Half your suit

      Never name to us, you have half our power;

      The other moiety, ere you ask, is given.

      Repeat your will and take it.

      Thank your Majesty.

      That you would love yourself, and in that love

      Not unconsidered leave your honour, nor

      The dignity of your office, is the point

      Of my petition.

      Lady mine, proceed.

      I am solicited, not by a few,

      And those of true condition, that your subjects

      Are in great grievance. There have been commissions

      Sent down among 'em, which hath flaw'd the heart

      Of all their loyalties; wherein, although,

      My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches

      Most bitterly on you, as putter on

      Of these exactions, yet the King our master —

      Whose honour Heaven shield from soil! – even he escapes not

      Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks

      The sides of loyalty, and almost appears

      In loud rebellion.

      Not "almost appears,"

      It doth appear; for, upon these taxations,

      The clothiers all, not able to maintain

      The many to them longing, have put off

      The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,

      Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger

      And lack of other means, in desperate manner

      Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar,

      And danger serves among them.

      Taxation!

      Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal,

      You that are blam'd for it alike with us,

      Know you of this taxation?

      Please you, sir,

      I know but of a single part, in aught

      Pertains to the state, and front but in that file

      Where others tell steps with me.

      No, my lord?

      You know no more than others? But you frame

      Things that are known alike, which are not wholesome

      To those which would not know them, and yet must

      Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,

      Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are

      Most pestilent to the hearing; and, to bear 'em,

      The back is sacrifice to the load. They say

      They are devis'd by you; or else you suffer

      Too hard an exclamation.

      Still exaction!

      The nature of it? In what kind, let's know,

      Is this exaction?

      I am much too venturous

      In tempting of your patience; but am bold'ned

      Under your promis'd pardon. The subjects' grief

      Comes through commissions, which compels from each

      The sixth part of his substance, to be levied

      Without delay; and the pretence for this

      Is nam'd, your wars in France. This makes bold mouths;

      Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze

      Allegiance in them; their curses now

      Live where their prayers did; and it's come to pass

      This tractable obedience is a slave

      To each incensed will. I would your Highness

      Would give it quick consideration, for

      There is no primer business.

      By my life,

      This is against our pleasure.

      And for me,

      I have no further gone in this than by

      A single voice; and that not pass'd me but

      By learned approbation of the judges. If I am

      Traduc'd by ignorant tongues, which neither know

      My faculties nor person, yet will be

      The chronicles of my doing, let me say

      'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake

      That virtue must go through. We must not stint

      Our necessary actions, in the fear

      To cope malicious censurers; which ever,

      As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow

      That is new-trimm'd, but