Without the form of justice, yet our power
Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men
May blame, but not control.--Who's there? the traitor?

[Re-enter servants, with Gloster.]

Reg.
Ingrateful fox! 'tis he.

Corn.
Bind fast his corky arms.

Glou.
What mean your graces?--Good my friends, consider
You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends.

Corn.
Bind him, I say.

[Servants bind him.]

Reg.
Hard, hard.--O filthy traitor!

Glou.
Unmerciful lady as you are, I'm none.

Corn.
To this chair bind him.--Villain, thou shalt find,--