I'd pay out my estate in hire of men
To spend their lives devising drawn-out pains
That death might feed and grow upon itself!
La. Alb. Ah, sir, no need. I'm dead now with your words.
Alb. The king is entering. Look up, my dame.
I rage to think you could be false, and not
Because you are. Come, where's your blood, my lady?
Those frosted cheeks are not the royal color.
Smile and I'll pardon you. I know you true.
[Aside] But when we're home again we'll talk somewhat