Britain ... - Blue-Lite

Scene II.] THE VARANGIAN. 317
HEREWARD.
O,
it cannot be
That thou shouldst seek thy noble husband's death,
Whom all men love. Thou dost but try my truth.
JUDITH.
Base lack-brain fool ! I cannot deign to pour
In thy dull ear the hopes, the rage, the pangs
That rack this heart. I wish him dead ! and thou
A fitting tool wert deemed, or we had not
Stooped thus to honour thee.
HEREWARD.
I scorn the office.
Let such abhorred distinctions be conferred
On those thou better than thy husband lov'st.
They merit such high service.
JUDITH.
Saucy groom !
How far have we o'ermeasured thy deserts.
MATILDA.
Measure them, madam, by the hangman's rope,
That lifts him to the highest forest tree ;
Where, swinging to and fro i' th' tainted winds,
The hungry ravens will croak his merits forth
As they pick clean his bones. Mad could I run
So to be cozened by a swinish slave !
HEREWARD.
are both
These are your Norman women ! Ye
A glorious sample of your hell-black tribe,
Your nation's infamy and England's curse !
JUDITH.
Disserviceable, courageless, mean cur.
That lick'st the foot which spurns thee, and the rod
Which thy lack-linen back makes red with stripes !