LADY F. Your travail and your comfortable news:
This ring, the certain sign you met with him:
Binds me in duteous love unto your grace;
But on my knees I fall, and humbly crave
Importune that no more you ne'er can have.
RICH. Nay, then, ye wrong me, Lady Fauconbridge,
Did you not join your fair white hands,
Swore that ye would forswear your husband's bed,
[And] if I could but find out Gloster?
LADY F. I swear so!
RICH. [Yes,] by heaven.
ROB. Take heed; it's an high oath, my lord.
RICH. What meanest thou, Huntington?
ROB. To save your soul;
I do not love to have my friends forsworn,
She never promis'd, that you urge her with.
RICH. Go to; provoke me not.
ROB. I tell you true;
'Twas I in her attire that promis'd you.
She was gone unto the wizard at Blackheath,
And there had suitors more than a good many.
RICH. Was I deluded then?