Else had he never put unto his lips
The rose that bloomed for one so high above him.
But dreaded death is yet full gracious, sire,
And sanctions rights too bold for life to claim.
Hen. Did Hubert wrong me, father?
Fr. Seb. Alas, my king!
Hen. Come, drop your burden even to my heart
That I may know its weight.
Fr. Seb. Sire, in the hour
That he spent last on land, I married him