wherein am I guilty? 'Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France, And, being protector, stayed the soldiers' pay; By means whereof his highness hath lost France. Is it but thought so? what are they that think it? I never robb'd the soldiers of their pay, Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. So help me God, as I have watch'd the night, Ay, night by night, in studying good for England, That doit that e'er I wrested from the king, Or any groat I hoarded to my use, Be brought against me at my trial-day! No; many a pound of mine own proper store, Because I would not tax the needy commons, Have I disbursed to the garrisons, And never ask'd for restitution. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much. I say no more than truth, so help me God! In your protectorship you did devise Strange tortures for offenders never heard of, That England was defamed by tyranny. Why, 'tis well known that, whiles I was protector, Pity was all the fault that was in me; For I should melt at an offender's tears, And lowly words were ransom for their fault. Unless it were a bloody murderer, Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers, I never gave them condign punishment: Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured Above the felon or what trespass else. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered: But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge, Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. I do arrest you in his highness' name; And here commit you to my lord cardinal To keep, until your further time of trial. My lord of Gloucester, 'tis my special hope That you will clear yourself from all suspect: My conscience tells me you are innocent. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous: Virtue is choked with foul ambition And charity chased hence by rancour's hand; Foul subornation is predominant And equity exiled your highness' land. I know their complot is to have my life, And if my death might make this island happy, And prove the period of their tyranny, I would expend it with all willingness: But mine is made the prologue to their play; For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril, Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. Beaufort's red sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice, And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate; Sharp Buckingham unburthens with his tongue The envious load that lies upon his heart; And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, Whose overweening arm I have pluck'd back,