Look how I am bewitch’d; behold, mine arm
Is, like a blasted sapling, wither’d up;
And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch,
Consorted with that harlot, strumpet Shore,
That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.
Hastings.—If they have done this deed, my noble lord—
Glo’ster.—If? thou protector of this damn’d strumpet,
Talk’st thou to me of ifs!—Thou art a traitor:—
Off with his head! Now by St. Paul I swear,
I will not dine until I see the same.