But what shall I do? What hope giv'st thou me?
King. Leave here those boughs, the token of your grief.
500
Chor. Lo! here I leave them at thy beck and word.
King. Now turn thy steps towards this open lawn.
Chor. What shelter gives a lawn unconsecrate?[[240]]
King. We will not yield thee up to birds of prey.
Chor. Nay, but to foes far worse than fiercest dragons.
King. Good words should come from those who good have heard.
Chor. No wonder they wax hot whom fear enthrals.