CAMBER.
Speak, then: too long thou falterest nigh the goal.
DEBON.
There is a bower built fast beside a ford
In Essex, held in sure and secret ward
Of woods and walls and waters, still and sole
As love could choose for harbourage: there the king
Keeps close from all men now these seven years since
The light wherein he lives: and there hath she
Borne him a maiden child more sweet than spring.
CAMBER.
A child her daughter? there now hidden?
DEBON.
Prince,
What ails thee?
CAMBER.
Nought. This river’s name?