So clean, so furbished, so renewed in white,
The livery of our foes; I see thee through:
What mak'st thou here? thou trim apostate, speak.
Thou shak'st for fear, I feel thy false heart pant.
Phil. Ah mighty Grimbald,
Who would not fear, when seized in thy strong gripe!
But hear me, Oh renowned, Oh worthy fiend,
The favourite of our chief!
Grim. Away with fulsome flattery,
The food of fools; thou knowest where last we met,