Thou wilt be bent, nor to my sire wilt yield;
Yet for the sake of holy peace submit;
For pity of all our people and thine own,
Whom pride will slay: think of the myriad wounds
Softness may staunch; and how kings have no honour
Above the keeping of their folk in peace.
Fer. Is’t in thy creed man shall buy peace of heaven
By selling honour? O nay. Let the king
But take my life, and count my blood enough
To be one slave’s redemption; there were then