Some men are fashioned men by circumstance—
Shaped by what wind blows on them. In their veins
The heavens croak or sing. Does the sky frown,
They're muddy and befouled,—it smiles, and straight
Fair weather's in their blood, sporting its flag
In their new countenance. Not I, my lords!
Nay, on the winds my soul shall leave its shape,
And where I venture I am what I am,
A knight of England, loyal to his king. [Exit]
Alb. Death to his arrogance!