Mar. Not her,
So fair ... and dear to us.
Kent. [Kissing her] My gentle love!
... 'Twere best she died, who now must drink the cup
That makes death sweet in coming. I myself
Almost could guide the knife unto her heart
And cut off ruder visitors.
Mar. O, veil
The thought. Its nakedness has chilled my soul.
Kent. Ay, she is God's, not mine. Leave her to him.