And ship him straight to Calais—or to Heaven.
Pem. [Half rising] Devils! dogs! beasts!
Now these devoted bones
Will never lie at peace in English earth.
My country! Must the foreign foot be set
Once more upon thy neck, and thine own sons
Pour sulphur to thy wounds? The king! the king!
What, vipers, do you hear? Call in the king!
Alb. We must not, sir.
Pem. Ho, here! The king!