Clutched at the throats of all these bloody princes.
Hild. Yea, Peter.
Pet. Ha, ha, thou, too, hast a hate for kings.
Hild. Whoever saw a monk who loved a king?
The king was ever our natural enemy.
But see in me no heaven-brooding monk,
But many men in one, a pope, a king,
A fierce ambition, like a burning flame,
To put these times and peoples ’neath my feet,