_Win._ I say, my lord, I'll strike as pleases me, And you keep cover as you will. [_Exit_] _Alb._ A bruise? Keep cover? Gods! And I stood still! The dog! I'll after him and take him by the throat! [_Re-enter lady Albemarle, right_] _La. Alb._ What said our ancient enemy? _Alb._ Enough! He angered me! _La. Alb._ But what the cause, my lord? _Alb._ He'll quash the claim the church makes to my castles If I will aid in bringing Kent to trial On charge of Adelais, who sojourns here To push her old appeal. I will not do 't! _La. Alb._ Thanks that you shield my brother, by whose rise You droop. _Alb._ I shield your brother? When his name Is Kent? Nay, you mistake me. I refused Because this princess was no more nor less Than Henry Second's mistress, and the son, Whose death is laid to Kent, was the vile fruit Of wantonness. A princess! I'd forgive A milkmaid false, but error in the great Is so bestarred by its exalted place That those beneath mistake what is so lustered For the true sun. _La. Alb._ Hast seen the king, my lord? _Alb._ I say 'tis guilt of such a heinous sort, So foully odorous and so far bestrewn, The sea o'errunning Britain could not wash The island free of it! _La. Alb._ 'Tis very wrong. _Alb_ What! Set this princess over all your heads As she were halo-browed, that you might pray Her saintly patronage for your loose hopes? _La. Alb._ Indeed, it is not well. _Alb._ Well? By my life, Our English dames are running mad enough, And must be duchesses because--look ye-- They're wantons to a king! Out on your kind! [_Aside, slowly_] "'Twas John, I think, who set your countess' father On fortune's road." You've been a handsome woman-- Could foot right well on Venus' heels. My soul, There's beauty in you yet to draw an eye O'er the picket of defence! _La. Alb._ My lord, I pray you---- _Alb._ 'Tis well that our young Richard has my eye, And trick of walk, and way of sudden speech, Else I'd suspect a cuckoo in the nest, For all your dainty strictures and high head! _La. Alb._ For Christ's sake, Albemarle---- _Alb._ Ay, had he not My very shoulder hitch and swelling neck This night I'd drag him to the eastern tower And hurl him to the Thames! _La. Alb._ My God! _Alb._ For you I'd pay out my estate in hire of men To spend their lives devising drawn-out pains That death might feed and grow upon itself! _La. Alb._ Ah, sir, no need. I'm dead now with your words.