For the remainder, they have heard our will,
And they must suffer: 'tis but fit we prove,
Spite of their obstinate and close defence,
Our English excellence.
Queen. [Kneels.] Oh! then, my liege,
Prove it in mercy.
War, noble sir! when too far push'd, is butchery:
When manly victory o'erleaps its limits,
The tyrant blasts the laurels of the conqueror.
Let it not dwell within your thoughts, my liege,