KING. One can be wrong about people, Bishop. I made the same mistake. (With a sudden cry) O my Thomas …
FOLLIOT. (Fiercely) You love him, your Highness! You still love him! You love that mitered hog, that impostor, that Saxon bastard, that little guttersnipe!
KING. (Seizing him by the throat) Yes, I love him! But that’s my affair, priest! All I confided to you was my hatred. I’ll pay you to rid me of him, but don’t ever speak ill of him to me. Or we’ll fight it out as man to man!