“My lords, have you said all? Then hear me speak.
I might be large to tell you, courtier prelates,
That if the Conqueror’s was an iron hand,
Not less ‘twas just. Oftenest it used aright
Its power usurped. It decked no idiot brow
With casual mitre: neither lodged in grasp
That, ague-stricken, scarce could hold its bribe,
The sceptres of the shepherds of Christ’s flock.”
And never were there nobler words than these:
“Bishops of England!