I 've just to bid him take it, and, that over,
We 'll fly away—fly, for I loathe this Turin,
This Rivoli, all titles loathe, all state.
We 'd best go to your country—unless God
Send I die now!
Pol. Charles, hear me!
Cha. And again
Shall you be my Polyxena—you 'll take me
Out of this woe! Yes, do speak, and keep speaking!
I would not let you speak just now, for fear