Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
What soilders whey-face? The English for so please you. Take thy face hence.
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.