With glory!—I detest the hell-sprung name.
Tyler. What matters me who wears the crown of France?
Whether a Richard or a Charles possess it?
They reap the glory—they enjoy the spoil—
We pay—we bleed! The sun would shine as cheerly,
The rains of heaven as seasonably fall,
Tho’ neither of these royal pests existed.
Hob. Nay—as for that, we poor men should fare better!
No legal robbers then should force away
The hard-earn’d wages of our honest toil.