1. SCENE I. Saint Alban's.
[Enter the KING, QUEEN, GLOSTER, CARDINAL, and SUFFOLK,
with FALCONERS halloing.]
Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook,
I saw not better sport these seven years' day;
Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high,
And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out.
But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,
And what a pitch she flew above the rest!
To see how God in all His creatures works!
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.
No marvel, an it like your majesty,
My lord protector's hawks do tower so well;
They know their master loves to be aloft,
And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.
My lord, 't is but a base ignoble mind
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
I thought as much; he would be above the clouds.
Ay, my lord cardinal? how think you by that?
Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven?
The treasury of everlasting joy.
Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts
Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart,
Pernicious protector, dangerous peer,
That smooth'st it so with king and commonweal.
What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?
Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?
Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice;
With such holiness can you do it?
No malice, sir; no more than well becomes
So good a quarrel and so bad a peer.
As who, my lord?
Why, as you, my lord,
An 't like your lordly lord-protectorship.
Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.
And thy ambition, Gloster.