And best of all if tow’rd the worse I dread.
But yet no violence?—
Lord. At most, impatience;
Wearied perhaps with importunities
We yet were bound to offer.
King. Oh, Clotaldo!
Though thus far well, yet would myself had drunk
The potion he revives from! such suspense
Crowds all the pulses of life’s residue
Into the present moment; and, I think,