And plucks the glory from me, which this ceremony
Would grace my name withal, and let me die.
O'Carrol. Die!—Och, the devil! did I come to the camp for this?—Madam, dear, dear madam!—
[Aside.
King. The glory!—Why, by Heaven! these headstrong French
Toy with our punishments!
For thee, rash stripling! who dost brave our vengeance,
Prepare to meet it. Yoke thee with this knave,
Whose insolence hath roused our spleen, and, straight,