ARTHUR

God shall forgive you Cordelions death The rather, that you give his offspring life, Shadowing their right under your wings of war: I give you welcome with a powerless hand, But with a heart full of unstained love, Welcome before the gates of Angiers Duke. Oh this will make my mother die with grief. Good my mother peace, I would that I were low laid in my graven, I am not worth this coil that's made for me. I do beseech you Madam be content. Good morrow Hubert. As little Prince, having so great a Title To be more Prince, as may be: you are sad. Are you sick Hubert? you look pale to day, Insooth I would you were a little sick, That I might fit all night, and watch with you. I warrant I love you more then you do me. Too fairly Hubert, for so foul effect, Must you with hight Irons, burn out both mine eyes? Ah, none but in this Iron Age, would do it: The Iron of it self, though heat read hight, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench this fiery indignation, Even in the matter of mine innocence: Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye: Are you more stubborn hard, then hammered Iron? And if and Angel should have come to me, And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed him: no tongue but Huberts. The Wall is high, and yet will I leap down. Good ground be pitiful, and hurt me not: There's few or none do know me, if they did, This Ship-bois semblance hath disguised me quite. I am afraid, and yet I'll venture it. If I get down, and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away; As good to die, and go; as die, and stay. O me, my Uncles spirit is in these stones, Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones. Mercy on me: Me thinks no body should be sad but I: Yet I remember, when I was in France, Young Gentlemen would be as sad as night Only for wantonness: by my Christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept Sheep I should be as merry as the day is long: And so I would be here, but that I doubt My Uncle practises more harm to me: He is afraid of me, and I of him: Is it my fault, that I was Geoffrey's son? No in deed is't not: and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert: And will you? Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my and-kercher about your brows (The best I had, a Princess wrought it me) And I did never ask it you again: And with my hand, at midnight held your head; And Like the watchful minutes, to the hour, Still and anon cheered up the heavy time; Saying, what lack you? and where lies your grief? Or what good love may I perform for you? Many a poor men son would have lyen still, And never have spoke a loving word to you: But you, at your sick service had a Prince: Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning. Do, and if you will, If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes, that never did, nor never shall So much as frown on you. Oh save me Hubert, save me: my eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Alas, what need you be so boisterous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone still: For heaven sake Hubert let me not be bound: Nay hear me Hubert, driven these men away, And I will fit as quiet as a Lamb. I will not stir, nor winch, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the Iron angrily: Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, What ever torment you do put me too. Alas, I then have chid away my friend, He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. Is there no remedy? Oh heaven: that there were but a moth in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense: Then feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vild intent must needs seem horrible. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues, Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes: Let me not hold my tongue: let me not Hubert, Or Hubert, if you will cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. Oh spare mine eyes, Though to no use, but still to look on you. Lo, by my troth, the Instrument is cold, And would not harm me. No, in good sooth: the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be used In undeserved extremes: See else your self, There is no malice in this burning coal, The breath of heaven, hath blown his spirit out, And strewed repentant ashes on his head. And if you do, you will but make it blush, And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes: And, Like a dog that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his Master that does car him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office: only you do lack That mercy, which fierce fire, and Iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy, lacking uses. Oh now you look Like Hubert. All this while You were disguised. Oh heaven! I thank you Hubert.