Our English dames are running mad enough,
And must be duchesses because—look ye—
They're wantons to a king! Out on your kind!
[Aside, slowly] "'Twas John, I think, who set your countess' father
On fortune's road." You've been a handsome woman—
Could foot right well on Venus' heels. My soul,
There's beauty in you yet to draw an eye
O'er the picket of defence!
La. Alb. My lord, I pray you——
Alb. 'Tis well that our young Richard has my eye,