All unavailing I have battered here
Humbling my royalty to his stern commands.
Were these gates less stony they would open.
Queen. O, Warder, mercy! Pray the mighty Pope,
A moment’s audience. I am a stricken woman,
And this my husband, who, once called a King
Now doffs his kingship, garbed in penitence.
Hath he no pity?
Ward. His Holiness hath harkened to thy suit,
And, be thou penitent, would pardon thee,