Now fang-close to his heart—there is my death!
[Sits on a couch, his head bowed. Margaret enters, advances softly and embraces him. He looks up, returning her caress]
Now let the world go on, I'll rest me here.
Why should I keep my hand proud on the helm,
War with the unsated surge, nor know the pause
That is the spirit's silent growing time?
Ah, Margaret, how little will content thee?
No more nor less than love and poorest me?
Mar. No more, my lord. Nor will aught less make full
My greedy cup. Thou wert the king's, but now