Tyr. My joys have all false parts, there's nothing true to me,
That's either kind or pleasant. I'm hardly dealt withal;
I must not miss her, I want her sight too long.
Where's this old fellow?
Soph. Here's one, my lord, of threescore and seventeen.
Tyr. Pish! That old limber ass puts in his head still.
Helvetius! where is he?
Mem. Not yet return'd, my lord.
Enter Helvetius.
Tyr. Your lordship lies;
Here comes the kingdom's father. Who amongst you
Dares say this worthy man has not made speed?
I would fain hear that fellow!
Soph. I'll not be he;
I like the standing of my head too well
To have it mended!
Tyr. Thy sight quickens me.
I find a better health when thou art present,
Than all times else can bring me. Is the answer
As pleasing as thyself?
Hel. Of what, my lord?