Nor natural love put on the formal robe
Of cold too-balanced State-craft. Hear me, old man,
And thou too, wife. 'Twere better, ay, far better,
That I should get me gone, and my wife with me,
Than be pent here unwilling; but were it better
Or were it worse, be sure I will not stay
When duty calls me hence. Wife, wilt thou come?
Gycia. My lord, I cannot.
Asan.