That sought to be encompass’d with your crown:
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
5 K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck:
To see this sight, it irks my very soul.
Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault,
[♦] Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.
Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity
[10] And harmful pity must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.