’Twill make them cool in zeal unto your grace.
Suf. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here
With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d,
180 As if she had suborned some to swear
False allegations to o’erthrow his state?
Queen. But I can give the loser leave to chide.
Glou. Far truer spoke than meant: I lose, indeed;
[♦] Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me false!
185 And well such losers may have leave to speak.
Buck. He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day: