You must.
Hen. No, no! I have a fear some harm
Will touch you, me away. Keep you the charm,
And I will take your lute. In lonely hours
I'll touch the chords and think thou'rt listening. [Exit]
Gla. A lovely boy! O me, these dreadful wars!
Eldra's a goose to call the king's men rude.
I wish he had not gone. I'll play again
And see who'll come. Ah, now I have no lute.
No matter, I will sing.