ELY.  Thanks, Friar.

FRIAR.  O, my lord thinks me an ass.

ROB.  H. Friar, what honest man is there with thee?

FRIAR.  A silly man, good master.  I will speak for you: 
Stand you aloof, for fear they note your face. [To ELY.

        Master, in plain,
        It were but in vain,
        Long to detain
        With toys or with babbles,
        With fond, feigned fables;
        But him that you see
        In so mean degree
        Is the Lord Ely,
        That help’d to exile you,
        That oft did revile you. 
        Though in his fall
        His train be but small,
        And no man at all
        Will give him the wall,
        Nor lord doth him call,
        Yet he did ride,
        On jennets pied,
        And knights by his side
        Did foot it each tide. 
        O, see the fall of pride.[228]

ROB.  H. Friar, enough. [Aside.

FRIAR.  I pray, sir, let him go,
He is a very simple man in show: 
He dwells at Oxon, and to us doth say,
To Mansfield market he doth take his way.

LIT.  JOHN.  Friar, this is not Mansfield market-day.

ROB.  H. What would he sell?

FRIAR.  Eggs, sir, as he says.

ROB.  H. Scarlet, go thy ways: 
Take in this old man, fill his skin with venison,
And after give him money for his eggs.

ELY.  No, sir, I thank you, I have promis’d them
To Master Bailey’s wife, of Mansfield, all.

ROB.  H. Nay, sir, you do me wrong: 
No Bailey nor his wife shall have an egg. 
Scarlet, I say, take his eggs, and give him money.

ELY.  Pray, sir.

FRIAR.  Tush, let him have your eggs.

ELY.  Faith, I have none.

FRIAR.  God’s pity, then, he will find you some.[229]

SCAR.  Here are no eggs, nor anything but hay. 
Yes, by the mass, here’s somewhat like a seal!

ROB.  H. O God! 
My prince’s seal! fair England’s royal seal! 
Tell me, thou man of death, thou wicked man,
How cam’st thou by this seal? wilt thou not speak? 
Bring burning irons!  I will make him speak. 
For I do know the poor distressed lord,
The king’s vicegerent, learned, reverend Ely,
Flying the fury of ambitious John,
Is murder’d by this peasant.  Speak, vile man,
Where thou hast done thrice honourable Ely!

ELY.  Why dost thou grace Ely with styles of grace,
Who thee with all his power sought to disgrace?

ROB.  H. Belike, his wisdom saw some fault in me.

ELY.  No, I assure thee, honourable earl;
It was his envy, no defect of thine,
And the persuasions of the Prior of York,
Which Ely now repents.  See, Huntington,
Ely himself, and pity him, good son.