ROBIN: Ah, which is the disguise? Day after day we rise and put our social armor on. A different mask for every friend, but steel always to case our hearts. We are all so wrapped, so swathed, so muffled in habitual thought that now I swear we do not know our souls or bodies from the winding-sheets. Custom. Custom, the great god Custom, all day long shovels the dirt upon us where we lie buried alive and dreaming that we stand upright and royal. Sir, I have great doubts about this world, doubts if we have the right to sit down here for this betrothal feast and gorge ourselves with plenty, when we know that for the scraps and crumbs which we let fall and never miss, children would kiss our hands, and women weep in gratitude. Suppose a man fell wounded at your gates, you'd not pass on and smile and leave him there to die. Can a few short miles of distance blind you? Miles, nay, a furlong is enough to close the gates of mercy. Must we thrust our hands into the wounds before we can believe? Is our sight so thick and gross? We came, we saw, we conquered with the Conqueror. We gave ourselves broad lands, and when our king desired a wider hunting ground, we set hundreds of Saxon homes ablaze and tossed women and children back into the fire if they but wrung their hands against our will. We made our forest, and its leaves were pitiful, more pitiful than man. They gave our homeless victims the same refuge and happy hiding place they gave the birds and foxes. Then we made our forest-laws, and he that dared to hunt, even for food, even on the ground where we had burned his hut, the ground we had drenched with his own kindred's blood, poor foolish churl, why, we put out his eyes with red-hot irons, cut off both his hands, tortured him with such horrors that ... Christ God, how can I help but fight against it all?