And all of royalty’s golden splendor is wrecked
And shattered like a rainbow in a storm!
O Gregory, O Gregory, thou awful man,
Didst thou but speak I might become a clod,
Or weed or senseless turf beneath thy feet.
Enter the Bishop of Bamburg and a noble.
Hen. Come now and strip me, let my very life
But follow my royalty.
Bam. O, my poor Liege!
Lord. Yea, they have left him lone enough indeed.