Hen. You are the torturer!
O, Hubert, Hubert, I am on my knees!
Kent. Sire, give me leave to go, and take this maid,
So long my care that I must keep her still.
Come, Glaia—child—'tis Hubert takes thy hand.
My sovereign lord, I go with sorrow hence.
I would my tongue were torn from its curst root
Than speak you woe,—but do not hope, my liege,
Your husband hand can ever touch this maid.
The thought to ague shakes my soul!