Fitzwater.  How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse: 
     If I dare eat or drink or breathe or live,
     I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,
     And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,
     And lies, and lies:  there is my bond of faith,
     To tie thee to thy strong correction. 
     As I do hope to thrive in this new world,
     Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal.

The truth is, that there is neither truth nor honour in all these noble persons:  they answer words with words, as they do blows with blows, in mere self-defence:  nor have they any principle whatever but that of courage in maintaining any wrong they dare commit, or any falsehood which they find it useful to assert.  How different were these noble knights and ‘barons bold’ from their more refined descendants in the present day, who instead of deciding questions of right by brute force, refer everything to convenience, fashion, and good breeding!  In point of any abstract love of truth or justice, they are just the same now that they were then.

The characters of old John of Gaunt and of his brother York, uncles to the King, the one stern and foreboding, the other honest, good-natured, doing all for the best, and therefore doing nothing, are well kept up.  The speech of the former, in praise of England, is one of the most eloquent that ever was penned.  We should perhaps hardly be disposed to feed the pampered egotism of our countrymen by quoting this description, were it not that the conclusion of it (which looks prophetic) may qualify any improper degree of exultation.

     This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,
     This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars,
     This other Eden, demi-Paradise,
     This fortress built by nature for herself
     Against infection and the hand of war;
     This happy breed of men, this little world,
     This precious stone set in the silver sea,
     Which serves it in the office of a wall
     (Or as a moat defensive to a house)
     Against the envy of less happy lands: 
     This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
     Fear’d for their breed and famous for their birth,
     Renown’d for their deeds, as far from home,
     For Christian service and true chivalry,
     As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
     Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s son;
     This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
     Dear for her reputation through the world,
     Is now leas’d out (I die pronouncing it)
     Like to a tenement or pelting farm. 
     England bound in with the triumphant sea,
     Whose rocky shore beats back the envious surge
     Of wat’ry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
     With inky-blots and rotten parchment bonds. 
     That England, that was wont to conquer others,
     Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.