Phil. Indeed, mine are two queens, and one I'll throw away.
Epire. Doth your majesty mark that?
You are the king that she is weary of,
And my sister the queen that he will cast away.
Phil. Can you decard,[220] madam?
Queen. Hardly, but I must do hurt.[221]
Phil. But spare not any to confirm your game.
Epire. Would you have more plain proof of their foul treason?
They do not plot your highness' death alone.
Cyp. But others, which they think depend on me.
Epire. Myself, and those which do you services:
They are bloody-minded; yet for myself,
Were it not for your safety, I could wish
You would remit and blot these errors out,
In hope that time would bring them to more virtue.
Cyp. O, then thou didst not love me, nor thy faith
Took hold upon my scandals; fie, I'm mad,
Sham'd and disgrac'd, all wit-stung, wisdomless.
Within there, ho!
Enter Florio.