Sir Lambert.
Ah! on your own blood,
Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare,
With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back
And take the lady Alice?
Sir Peter.
Say her name
Again, and you are dead, slain here by me.
Why should I talk with you? I'm master here,
And do not want your schooling; is it not
My mercy that you are not dangling dead
There in the gateway with a broken neck?
Sir Lambert.
Such mercy! why not kill me then outright?
To die is nothing; but to live that all
May point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die.
John Curzon.
Why, will it make you any uglier man
To lose your ears? they're much too big for you,
You ugly Judas!
Sir Peter.
[To Lambert.