’Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.
Glou. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart:
Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers;
[♦] And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee,
180 Or to the meanest groom.
King. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones,
[♦] Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby!
Queen. Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest,
And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.
185 Glou. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,