ALMACHILDES.
King, I may not
Touch hands with thee.
ALBOVINE.
Thou art false, then, ha? Thou hast lied?
ALMACHILDES.
King, till the wrong I have wrought be wreaked or healed
I clasp not hands with honour. Nay, and then
Perchance I may not.
ALBOVINE.
Boy I called thee: child
I call thee now. But, boy, the child thou art
Is noble as our sires.
ALMACHILDES.
Would God it were!