why comest thou in such haste? The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord! Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, Descended from the Duke of Clarence' house, And calls your grace usurper openly And vows to crown himself in Westminster. His army is a ragged multitude Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless: Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's death Hath given them heart and courage to proceed: All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, They call false caterpillars, and intend their death. O graceless men! they know not what they do. My gracious lord, return to Killingworth, Until a power be raised to put them down. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive, These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased! Lord Say, the traitors hate thee; Therefore away with us to Killingworth. So might your grace's person be in danger. The sight of me is odious in their eyes; And therefore in this city will I stay And live alone as secret as I may. Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge: The citizens fly and forsake their houses: The rascal people, thirsting after prey, Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear To spoil the city and your royal court. Then linger not, my lord, away, take horse. Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will succor us. My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased. Farewell, my lord: trust not the Kentish rebels. Trust nobody, for fear you be betray'd. The trust I have is in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. How now! is Jack Cade slain? No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that withstand them: the lord mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower, to defend the city from the rebels. Such aid as I can spare you shall command; But I am troubled here with them myself; The rebels have assay'd to win the Tower. But get you to Smithfield, and gather head, And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe; Fight for your king, your country and your lives; And so, farewell, for I must hence again. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge and command that, of the city's cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now henceforward it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer. Jack Cade! Jack Cade! Knock him down there. If this fellow be wise, he'll never call ye Jack Cade more: I think he