I have a soul, disdains his contumely;
A guiltless spirit, that provokes no wrong,
Nor from a monarch would endure it, offer'd:
Uninjur'd, lamb like; but a lion, rous'd.
Know, too injurious lord, here stands before thee,
The equal of thy birth.
Count. Away, base clod.—
Obey me, slaves.—What, all amaz'd with lies?
Aust. Yet, hear him, Narbonne: that ingenuous face