The King: Let each of these new eyes
Pour forth its sap like tears! And let me become as red as Mars, and let me be resplendent with your shame
Like a mirror!
—But were you conquerors?
The Centurion: We were, Sire.
The King: I have no strength. I can do nothing more.
O stout limbs now broken, I, I,
I lie here at your mercy, more feeble than a debauched old man,
Than some vile candle-end whose liquorous eye pours forth its flame! This wretched body, this ignoble thing,
Refuses to my soul its proper speech!