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 this 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 shipped from thence to Flanders.

Well guessed, believe me, for that was my meaning.

Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.

But wherefore stay we? ’Tis no time to talk.

Huntsman, what sayst thou? Wilt thou go along?

Better do so than tarry and be hanged.

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.