And now, my life, you, too, must go to rest.
Mar. You'll not to bed?
Kent. The king may send for me.
He will not sleep, for in his face was woe
Will quiet not to slumber.
Mar. O, my love,
How can I leave thee now? If thou wert held
By softest sleep on pillows of content
I could no less than weep to go from thee,
And yet these tears are all I have when thou