Exemption from these weary politics,
—The privilege to prattle with my son
And daughter here, though Europe wait the while.
Pol. Nay, sir,—at Chambery, away forever,
As soon you will be, 't is farewell we bid you:
Turn these few fleeting moments to account!
'T is just as though it were a death.
Vic. Indeed!
Pol. [Aside.] Is the trap there?
Cha. Ay, call this parting—death!