In by yourself; I pass not for your spells.
Of youth and beauty still you are the foe:
The curse of Rosamond rests on your head,
Fair Rose confounded by your cank'rous hate,[182]
O, that she were not as to me she is,
A mother, whom by nature I must love,
Then I would tell her she were too-too base
To dote thus on a banish'd careless groom:
Then should I tell her that she were too fond
To trust[183] fair Marian to an exile's hand.
_Enter a_ MESSENGER _from_ ELY.
MES. My lord, my Lord of Ely sends for you
About important business of the state.
JOHN. Tell the proud prelate I am not dispos'd
Nor in estate to come at his command.
[_Smites him; he bleeds_.
Begone with that; or tarry, and take this!
'Zwounds! are ye list'ning for an after-errand?
[_Exit_ MESSENGER.
I'll follow with revengeful, murd'rous hate
The banish'd, beggar'd, bankrupt Huntington.
_Enter_ SIMON, _Earl of Leicester_.
LEI. How now, Prince John? body of me! I muse
What mad moods toss ye in this busy time
To wound the messenger that Ely sent,
By our consents? i'faith, ye did not well.
JOHN. Leicester, I meant it, Ely, not his man:
His servant's head but bleeds, he headless shall
From all the issues of his traitor-neck
Pour streams of blood, till he be bloodless left.
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