Fur. To Master Clarence? what is your friend sicke?
Mom. Exceeding sicke.
Tal. I am exceeding sorrie.
King. Never was sorrow worthier bestowed Then for the ill state of so good a man.
Pene. Alas poore Gentleman; good my Lord lets see him.
Mom. Thankes gentle Ladie, but my friend is loth To trouble Ladies since he cannot quitt them. With anything he hath that they respect.
Hip. Respect, my Lord! I wood hold such a man
In more respect then any Emperour:
For he cood make me Empresse of my selfe
And in mine owne rule comprehend the World.
Mom. How now young Dame? what sodainly inspird?
This speech hath silver haires, and reverence askes,
And sooner shall have duty done of me,
Then any pompe in temperall Emperie.
Hip. Good Madam get my Lord to let us greet him.
Eug. Alas we shall but wrong and trouble him. His Contemplations greet him with most welcome.