Queen. Henry, my Lord, one word before you go.
What have I done to gather all this hate?
Bam. Your Majesty may sever my poor body,
Mend you your love. Kill me, Henry, but
Murder not by scorn, the noblest love
That soul hath nourished. By these wintry hairs,
Though thou dost slay me, I will tell thee true
By this one act thou dost unking thyself.
Hen. No more, by heaven, no more, I know her not.
When will my subjects treat me less the child?