But I’ll make sure for one.
Clo. It is the Prince, oh Gods! what makes he here?
With Looks disorder’d too; this Place is fit for Death and sad
Despair; the melancholy Spring a sleepy murmur makes,
A proper Consort for departing Souls,
When mix’d with dying Groans, and the thick Boughs
Compose a dismal Roof;
Dark as the gloomy Shades of Death or Graves.
—He comes this way, I’ll hide my self awhile. Goes behind a Bush.
Enter Frederick.