[_Exit Kent with Glaia. Margaret would follow, but is detained by lady Albemarle, who is half swooning. Winchester kneels and kisses the king's robe_] _Win._ My king, Thou'rt still beloved. _Hen._ Ah, what canst say to one So pinioned by distress that he must lose His dearest friend or dearest love? _Win._ My lord, if friendship may have leave to speak As fits its holy bond and name---- _Hen._ O, speak! Say anything! _Win._ Too long you have been wronged. Did not Kent win by stealth the Scottish princess, Your promised bride? Consorting his base blood With royalty?--which was his secret aim, And all his burning love for Margaret But feigned and politic to gain your pity. Again he's at your heart! And hopes once more To bear himself to high success. If not, With face assumed and sorrowing he'll melt You to forgiveness. _Mar._ Listen not, my liege! _Hen._ [_To Winchester_] Is this your comfort? _Mar._ Sire, he slanders love As true as God's to men, who says my lord Is false! _Win._ Her pride would say as much, my liege. As for this maid,--whom majesty might choose, And all the kingdom feel itself adorned,-- She's either heir to vast and rich estates, Or Kent dotes on her with such jealous love He will not yield her even to his king. And both these reasons, sire, I urge as one T' explain his stout refusal to make known What honesty would haste to shout aloud. _Wynne._ Who says that Kent, in friendship or in love, E'er sought his gain, doth foully lie! _Win._ This man Is Kent's own creature. _Hen._ Ah, that's not his sin. He loves my Glaia, and would make her his. _Wynne._ Yes, sire, I love her,--you are right so far,-- But, sovereign lord, I would expect as soon To pottle with an angel at an inn As make her mine. Though Hubert spurred my suit---- _Hen._ He favored you! _Wynne._ He set no bars between us. _Hen._ Ah, you could wed her--let the king go beg! _Alb._ Away, you perked-up villain! Out of this! _Wynne._ When you come with me, sir, that I may slit The tongue that fouls my name! _Alb._ My hot-mouthed sir, I'll leave his majesty to teach you better manners. _Hen._ And here I do, with a ne'er-ending lesson. Roland de Born, so lately lord of Wynne, Thou'rt banished from our realms, not to return, Though thou shouldst live to see more years than yet Man ever numbered his. _Wynne._ Is this your will? _Hen._ In truth, 'tis nothing else!