Lus. I am not pleas'd at that ill-knotted fire,
That bushing, flaring star. Am not I duke?
It should not quake me now. Had it appear'd
Before, I might then have justly fear'd;
But yet they say, whom art and learning weds,
When stars wear locks, they threaten great men's heads:
Is it so? you are read, my lords.
1st Noble. May it please your grace,
It shows great anger.
Lus. That does not please our grace.
2d Noble. Yet here's the comfort, my lord: many times,
When it seems most near, it threatens farthest off.
Lus. Faith, and I think so too.
1st Noble. Beside, my lord,
You're gracefully establish'd with the loves
Of all your subjects; and for natural death,
I hope it will be threescore years a-coming.
Lus. Do you?[117] no more but threescore years?
1st Noble. Fourscore, I hope, my lord.
2d Noble. And fivescore, I.
3d Noble. But 'tis my hope, my lord, you shall ne'er die.