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"Hath Bolingbroke deposed thine intellect?" the Queen asks him, on his way to the Tower: Hath Bolingbroke Deposed thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? And in truth, but for that adventitious poetic gold, it would be only "plume-plucked Richard." I find myself a traitor with the rest, For I have given here my soul's consent To undeck the pompous body of a king.
I did not think to glorify gods and kings, Who scourged them ever with hate's sanguineous rods; But who with hope and faith may live at odds? And then these jingling jays with plume-plucked wings, Compete, and laureate laurels are lovely things, Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and gods! Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced mimes! True thunder shall strike dumb their chirping chimes.
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