Hume must make merry with the Duchess’ gold;
Marry, and shall. But how now, Sir John Hume?
Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum;
The business asketh silent secrecy.
Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch;
Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.
Yet have I gold flies from another coast—
I dare not say from the rich Cardinal
And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk;
Yet I do find it so; for, to be plain,
They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humor,
Have hired me to undermine the Duchess,
And buzz these conjurations in her brain.
They say, “A crafty knave does need no broker,”
Yet am I Suffolk and the Cardinal’s broker.
Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near
To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.
Well, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last
Hume’s knavery will be the Duchess’ wrack,
And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall.
Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all.