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, 'tis 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, Gloucester. I prithee, peace, good queen, And whet not on these furious peers; For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. Let me be blessed for the peace I make, Against this proud protector, with my sword! Faith, holy uncle, would 'twere come to that! Marry, when thou darest. Make up no factious numbers for the matter; In thine own person answer thy abuse. Ay, where thou darest not peep: an if thou darest, This evening, on the east side of the grove. How now, my lords! Believe me, cousin Gloucester, Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly, We had had more sport. Come with thy two-hand sword. True, uncle. Are ye advised? the east side of the grove? Cardinal, I am with you. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester! Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. Now, by God's mother, priest, I'll shave your crown for this, Or all my fence shall fail. Medice, teipsum-- Protector, see to't well, protect yourself. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords. How irksome is this music to my heart! When such strings jar, what hope of harmony