DEBON.
What says my lord? how means he?
CAMBER.
Vex not thou
Thine old hoar head with care to learn of me
This. Great is time, and what he wills to be
Is here or ever proof may bring it: now,
Now is the future present. If thy vow
Constrain thee not, yet would I know of thee
One thing: this lustrous love-bird, where is she?
What nest is hers on what green flowering bough
Deep in what wild sweet woodland?
DEBON.
Good my lord,
Have I not sinned already—flawed my faith,
To lend such ear even to such royal suit?
CAMBER.
Yea, by my kingdom hast thou—by my sword,
Yea. Now speak on.
DEBON.
Yet hope—or honour—saith
I did not ill to trust the blood of Brute
Within thee. Not prince Hector’s sovereign soul,
The light of all thy lineage, more abhorred
Treason than all his days did Brute my lord.
My trust shall rest not in thee less than whole.