Sir Thomas More | Page 7

tempt necessity: I promise ye, a man that goes abroad With an intent of truth, meeting such a booty, May be wrought to that he never thought. What makes so many pilferers and felons, But these fond baits that foolish people lay To tempt the needy miserable wretch? Should he be taken now that has your purse, I'd stand to't, you are guilty of his death; For, questionless, he would be cast by law. Twere a good deed to fine ye as much more, To the relief of the poor prisoners, To teach ye lock your money up at home.
SURESBY. Well, Master More, you are a merry man; I find ye, sir, I find ye well enough.
MORE. Nay, ye shall see, sir, trusting thus your money, And Lifter here in trial for like case, But that the poor man is a prisoner, It would be now suspected that he had it. Thus may ye see what mischief often comes By the fond carriage of such needless sums.
LORD MAYOR. Believe me, Master Suresby, this is strange, You, being a man so settled in assurance, Will fall in that which you condemned in other.
MORE. Well, Master Suresby, there's your purse again, And all your money: fear nothing of More; Wisdom still keeps the mean and locks the door.
SCENE III. London. A state apartment.
[Enter the Earls of Shrewsbury and Surrey, Sir Thomas Palmer, and Sir Roger Cholmley.]
SHREWSBURY. My lord of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Palmer Might I with patience tempt your grave advise, I tell ye true, that in these dangerous times I do not like this frowning vulgar brow: My searching eye did never entertain A more distracted countenance of grief Than I have late observed In the displeased commons of the city.
SURREY. Tis strange that from his princely clemency, So well a tempered mercy and a grace, To all the aliens in this fruitful land, That this high-crested insolence should spring From them that breathe from his majestic bounty, That, fattened with the traffic of our country, Already leaps into his subject's face.
PALMER. Yet Sherwin, hindered to commence his suit Against De Barde by the ambassador, By supplication made unto the king, Who having first enticed away his wife, And got his plate, near worth four hundred pound, To grieve some wronged citizens that found This vile disgrace oft cast into their teeth, Of late sues Sherwin, and arrested him For money for the boarding of his wife.
SURREY. The more knave Barde, that, using Sherwin's goods, Doth ask him interest for the occupation. I like not that, my lord of Shrewsbury: He's ill bested that lends a well paced horse Unto a man that will not find him meet. CHOLMLEY. My lord of Surrey will be pleasant still.
PALMER. Aye, being then employed by your honors To stay the broil that fell about the same, Where by persuasion I enforced the wrongs, And urged the grief of the displeased city, He answered me, and with a solemn oath, That, if he had the Mayor of London's wife, He would keep her in despite of any English.
SURREY. Tis good, Sir Thomas, then, for you and me; Your wife is dead, and I a bachelor: If no man can possess his wife alone, I am glad, Sir Thomas Palmer, I have none.
CHOLMLEY. If a take a wife, a shall find her meet.
SURREY. And reason good, Sir Roger Cholmley, too. If these hot Frenchmen needsly will have sport, They should in kindness yet defray the charge: Tis hard when men possess our wives in quiet, And yet leave us in, to discharge their diet.
SHREWSBURY. My lord, our catours shall not use the market For our provision, but some stranger now Will take the vittailes from him he hath bought: A carpenter, as I was late informed, Who having bought a pair of doves in Cheap, Immediately a Frenchman took them from him, And beat the poor man for resisting him; And when the fellow did complain his wrongs, He was severely punished for his labor.
SURREY. But if the English blood be once but up, As I perceive their hearts already full, I fear me much, before their spleens be cold, Some of these saucy aliens for their pride Will pay for 't soundly, wheresoere it lights: This tide of rage that with the eddy strives, I fear me much, will drown too many lives.
CHOLMLEY. Now, afore God, your honors, pardon me: Men of your place and greatness are to blame. I tell ye true, my lords, in that his majesty Is not informed of this base abuse And daily wrongs are offered to his subjects; For, if he were, I know his gracious wisdom Would soon redress it.
[Enter a Messenger.]
SHREWSBURY. Sirrah, what news?
CHOLMLEY. None good, I fear.
MESSENGER. My lord, ill news; and worse, I fear,