ROB.  H. Sit down, fair queen (the prologue’s part is play’d;
Marian hath told ye, what I bad her tell): 
Sit down, Lord Sentloe, cousin Lacy, sit: 
Sir Gilbert Broughton, yea, and Warman, sit: 
Though you my steward be, yet for your gathering wit
I give you place:  sit down, sit down, I say: 
God’s pity! sit:  it must, it must be so,
For you will sit when I shall stand, I know. [Sits them all down. 
And, Marian, you may sit among the rest,
I pray ye do, or else rise, stand apart: 
These helps shall be beholders of my smart—­
You that with ruthless eyes my sorrows see,
And came prepar’d to feast at my sad fall,
Whose envy, greediness, and jealousy
Afford me sorrow endless, comfort small,
Know what you knew before, what you ordain’d
To cross the spousal banquet of my love,
That I am outlaw’d by the Prior of York,
My traitorous uncle and your toothless friend. 
Smile you, Queen Elinor? laugh’st thou, Lord Sentloe? 
Lacy, look’st thou so blithe at my lament? 
Broughton, a smooth brow graceth your stern face;
And you are merry, Warman, at my moan. 
The Queen except, I do you all defy! 
You are a sort[171] of fawning sycophants,
That, while the sunshine of my greatness ’dur’d,
Revelled out all my day for your delights;
And now ye see the black night of my woe
O’ershade the beauty of my smiling good,
You to my grief add grief; and are agreed
With that false Prior to reprieve my joys
From execution of all happiness.

WAR.  Your honour thinks not ill of me, I hope.

ROB.  H. Judas speaks first, with “Master, is it I?”
No, my false steward; your accounts are true;
You have dishonour’d me, I worshipp’d[172] you. 
You from a paltry pen-and-inkhorn clerk,
Bearing a buckram-satchel at your belt,
Unto a justice’ place I did prefer;
Where you unjustly have my tenants rack’d,
Wasted my treasure, and increas’d your store. 
Your sire contented with a cottage poor,
Your mastership hath halls and mansions built;
Yet are you innocent, as clear from guilt
As is the ravenous mastiff that hath spilt
The blood of a whole flock, yet slyly comes
And couches in his kennel with smear’d chaps. 
Out of my house! for yet my house it is,
And follow him, ye catchpole-bribed grooms;
For neither are ye lords nor gentlemen,
That will be hired to wrong a nobleman: 
For hired ye were last night, I know it, I,
To be my guests, my faithless guests this day,
That your kind host you trothless might betray. 
But hence, and help the Sheriff at the door,
Your worst attempt.  Fell traitors, as you be,
Avoid, or I will execute ye all
Ere any execution come at me! [They run away. 
They run[173] away, so ends the tragedy.
(Aside) Marian, by Little John, my mind you know: 
If you will, do; if not, why be it so.
                                 [Offers to go in.