Beyond the human. Say ye even yet
That ye do own me? This doth much amaze me.
Bam. We love thee yet and own thy majesty,
And kneel to thy allegiance.
Hen. If this were real, Henry’s heart could weep
With human gladness, but ’tis merely fancy.
You’d shrivel up like podshells were you men.
The very ground I stand on is accursèd.
No more may flowers therefrom, but only thorns
And noisesome weeds proceed. Away! away!