Yea, more, he says he’s coming soon to Rome
To take his crown of Empery at my hands,
Then craves my blessing, sent him with all speed,
“Your filial son.” A filial son, indeed,
A son of Hell, was fitter sonship. Peter,
This king makes me a devil.
Pet. Send him thy curse, thy ban, ’twere fitting answer
To such a message.
Hild. Nay, I will try him yet, not that last move,
Till lesser fails. Call in the Cardinals.