Had he not given hostages to the royal cause?
Had he not broken down every bridge by which he could, in case of a disaster, effect his retreat?
Had he not gone all lengths in favour of the dispensing power, sate in the High Commission, signed the warrant for the commitment of the Bishops, appeared as a witness against them, at the hazard of his life, amidst the hisses and curses of the thousands who filled Westminster Hall?
Had he not given the last proof of fidelity by renouncing his religion, and publicly joining a Church which the nation detested?
What had he to hope from a change?
What had he not to dread?
These arguments, though plausible, and though set off by the most insinuating address, could not remove the impression which whispers and reports arriving at once from a hundred different quarters had produced.
The King became daily colder and colder.

Sunderland attempted to support himself by the Queen's help, obtained an audience of Her Majesty, and was actually in her apartment when Middleton entered, and, by the King's orders, demanded the seals.

That evening the fallen minister was for the last time closeted with the Prince whom he had flattered and betrayed.
The interview was a strange one.

Sunderland acted calumniated virtue to perfection.

He regretted not, he said, the Secretaryship of State or the Presidency of the Council, if only he retained his sovereign's esteem.
"Do not, sir, do not make me the most unhappy gentleman in your dominions, by refusing to declare that you acquit me of disloyalty." The King hardly knew what to believe.