Iag. How meanes your Grace? can you indure to see
The Court eclipst with clouds of discontent,
Your father mourne your absence, and all hearts
Ore-whelm’d with sorrow, and you present, Sir?
Lor. Iago, I’me resolu’d:
Therefore what shape or humor I assume,
Take you no notice that I am the Prince.
Iag. Sir, I consent,
And vow to your concealement.
Lor. It is enough, my brother’s dead, thou saist: