And scorn to break my word.
Let us face ruin, father, not deceit.
King. My noble son, I love thee.
Lys.
Good my liege,
And thou, my Lord Asander, ponder it.
Consider our poor country's gaping wounds,
And what a remedy lies to our hands.
I will die willingly if I devise not
A scheme to bend these upstarts to your will.