Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley,
Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither,
Into this chiefest thicket of the park.
Thus stands the case: you know our king, my brother,
Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands
He hath good usage and great liberty,
And, often but attended with weak guard,
Comes hunting this way to disport himself.
I have advertised him by secret means
That if about this hour he make his way
Under the colour of his usual game,
He shall here find his friends with horse and men
To set him free from his captivity.
This way, my lord; for this way lies the game.
Nay, this way, man: see where the huntsmen stand.
Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest,
Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop's deer?
Brother, the time and case requireth haste:
Your horse stands ready at the park-corner.
But whither shall we then?
To Lynn, my lord,
And ship from thence to Flanders.
Well guess'd, believe me; for that was my meaning.
Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.
But wherefore stay we? 'tis no time to talk.
Huntsman, what say'st thou? wilt thou go along?
Better do so than tarry and be hang'd.
Come then, away; let's ha' no more ado.
Bishop, farewell: shield thee from Warwick's frown;
And pray that I may repossess the crown.