Pembroke, take hence and strip these popinjays,
These moths that live for lust and slaughter! strip them,
Garb their trim forms and perfumed limbs in russet.
And drive them to the field! We'll teach you, lords,
To till the glebe you've nurtured with our blood;
Your brows to damp with honorable dew,
And your fair hands with wholesome toil to harden.
Lord. Thou wilt not use us thus?
Aylmere. And wherefore not?
Lord. Heaven gave us rank, and freed that rank from labor.