Shedding the beauty of thy womanliness
On my rude cares. How fares Canossa?
Beat. O, Hildebrand, I come to thee no star,
But rather as a brook to some great river,
I flee me to the succor of thy presence.
Hild. Doth he so use thee, our one flower of women?
The brute, the beast, hath he maltreated thee?
Beat. Nay, not that yet, but leagues him, I much fear,
With that mad King of Germany.
Hild. Henry, agen!