Nay, e’en in this your prime the bid were fruitless,
For if my blood with yours could be immingled,
For all its heat ’twere left but what it is.
Kan.
At this late hour you’re shaken in the mind
And know not what you say and what you do.
Gyges.
Forgive me, Sire!
Kan.
Good faith, I chide you not!