Phil. Your highness' servant, but misfortune's slave.

Queen. Your game, I mean.

Phil. Nothing in show, yet somewhat in account;
Madam, I am blank.

Queen. You are a double game, and I am no less; there's an hundred, and all cards made, but one knave.

Epire. Mark that! of my life, she means your majesty.

Cyp. True, I know she holds me as her varlet,
And that I am imperfect in her game;
But my revenge shall give me better place,
Beyond the hate of her foul impudence.

Epire. Nay, good my lord, observe: they will confirm you better.

Queen. What's your game now?

Phil. Four kings, as I imagine.

Queen. Nay, I have two, yet one doth me little good.