Wynne. Yes, sire, I love her,—you are right so far,—
But, sovereign lord, I would expect as soon
To pottle with an angel at an inn
As make her mine. Though Hubert spurred my suit——
Hen. He favored you!
Wynne. He set no bars between us.
Hen. Ah, you could wed her—let the king go beg!
Alb. Away, you perked-up villain! Out of this!
Wynne. When you come with me, sir, that I may slit
The tongue that fouls my name!