MAT.  Good my lord, leave, or I will leave the place.

    [Dance again; and in the first course MATILDA
    flings from him:  JOHN follows.

FITZ.  Dance out your galliard:  God’s dear holy-bread! 
Y’are too forgetful.  Dance, or, by my troth,
You’ll move my patience more than I will speak.
          [She unwilling, JOHN roughly pulls her. 
Nay, soft, unmanner’d sir:  you are too rough: 
Her joints are weak, your arms are strong and tough. 
If ye come here for sport, you welcome be;
If not, better your room than such bad company.
                      [JOHN threatens him by signs. 
Dost threaten me? then will I see thy face.

KING.  And so thou shalt.  Look on me, rebel lord! 
Thou that wert late a factious ringleader,
And in the open field gav’st me fierce fight: 
Art thou again gathering another head,
That with such rudeness thou dost entertain
The gentle coming of thy sovereign?

FITZ.  My dread lord, hear me, and forgive this fault,
What I have erst done, long since you forgave: 
If I did lead the barons in the field,
The barons chose me, when they could not choose
But make some leader, you were so misled. 
When better thoughts enter’d your royal breast,
We then obey’d you as our sovereign head.

KING.  You did even what you list, and so do still: 
I am the king, but you must have your will. 
The plain truth is, we are not come in sport,
Though for our coming this was our best cloak;
For if we never come, till you do send,
We must not be your guest, while banquets last. 
Contentious brawls you hourly send to us;
But we may send and send, and you return—­
This lord is sick, that pained with the gout,
He rid from home.  You think I find not out
Your close confederacies:  yes, I do, no doubt.

LEI.  If there be here a close confederate,
God’s vengeance light upon him with my hate!

KING.  No, you are open, Leicester; that I know.

CHES.  I, by the Lord, my lord, your open foe.

LEI.  By thy lord’s Lord and mine, proud Ralph of Chester,
Thou durst not say so, wert thou from the king.

MOW.  Yes, but he dares and shall.

RICH.  Mowbray, if you stand by,
He dares perchance; else will the dastard fly.

CHES.  My own sword shall maintain my tongue’s true speech;
For it is not frequented to such lies,
As wrangling Leicester and proud Richmond use: 
It cannot set out, like a thundering drum
Or roaring cannon, stuff’d with nought but brags,
The multitudes of seas dyed red with blood,[317]
And famous cities into cinders turn’d
By their two armed arms.

KING.  Ay, Chester;
And then they show us rags, torn off belike
From poor decayed ladies’ petticoats;
For neither bill, nor feather’d shot, nor pike
Make half nor any of those rents they have. 
These, patch’d together, fasten’d unto staves,
They will not stick to swear have been advanc’d
Against the Sophy, Soldan, and the Turk.