Queen. The more my grief.
Y. Mor. And mine.
Kent. Ah, they do dissemble? [Aside.
Queen. Sweet son, come hither, I must talk with thee.
Y. Mor. You being his uncle, and the next of blood, Do look to be protector o'er the prince.
Kent. Not I, my lord; who should protect the son,90 But she that gave him life? I mean the queen.
Prince. Mother, persuade me not to wear the crown: Let him be king—I am too young to reign.
Queen. But be content, seeing 'tis [318] his highness' pleasure.
Prince. Let me but see him first, and then I will.
Kent. I, do, sweet nephew.