Henry Chettle - Sir Thomas More ACT 2. SCENE 3. lyrics

The Guildhall. Enter at one door Sir Thomas More and Lord Mayor; at another door Sir John Munday hurt. Lord Mayor. What, Sir John Munday, are you hurt? Sir John. A little knock, my lord. There was even now A sort of prentices playing at cudgels; I did command them to their masters' houses; But now, I fear me, they are gone to join With Lincoln, Sherwin, and their dangerous train. More. The captains of this insurrection Have taken themselves to arms, and came but now To both the Counters, where they have released Sundry indebted prisoners, and from thence I hear that they are gone into St. Martins, Where they intend to offer violence To the amazed Lombards: therefore, my lord, If we expect the safety of the city, Tis time that force or parley do encounter With these displeased men. Enter a Messenger. Lord Mayor. How now! what news? Messenger. My lord, the rebels have broke open Newgate, From whence they have delivered many prisoners, Both felons and notorious murderers, That desperately cleave to their lawless train. Lord Mayor. Up with the drawbridge, gather some forces To Cornhill and Cheapside:—and, gentlemen, If diligence be weighed on every side, A quiet ebb will follow this rough tide. Enter Shrewsbury, Surrey, Palmer, and Cholmley. Shrewsbury. Lord Mayor, his majesty, receiving notice Of this most dangerous insurrection, Hath sent my lord of Surrey and myself, Sir Thomas Palmer and our followers, To add unto your forces our best means For pacifying of this mutiny. In God's name, then, set on with happy speed! The king laments, if one true subject bleed. Surrey. I hear they mean to fire the Lombards' houses: Oh power, what art thou in a madman's eyes! Thou makest the plodding idiot bloody-wise. More. My lords, I doubt not but we shall appease With a calm breath this flux of discontent: To call them to a parley, questionless— Palmer. May fall out good: tis well said, Master More. More. Let's to these simple men; for many sweat Under this act, that knows not the law's debt Which hangs upon their lives; for silly men Plod on they know not how, like a fool's pen, That, ending, shows not any sentence writ, Linked but to common reason or slightest wit: These follow for no harm; but yet incur Self penalty with those that raised this stir. A God's name, on, to calm our private foes With breath of gravity, not dangerous blows!