He breaks from GONERIL and flings abruptly out by the door near the bed.
Gormflaith:
My king, you leave me!
Goneril:
Soon we follow him:
But, ah, poor fragile beauty, you cannot rise
While this grave burden weights your drooping head.
Laying her hand caressingly on GORMFLAITH'S neck, she gradually forces her head farther and farther down.
You were not nurtured to sustain a crown,
Your unanointed parents could not breed
The spirit that ten hundred years must ripen.
Lo, how you sink and fail.
Gormflaith:
You had best take care,
For where my neck has bruises yours shall have wounds.
The King knows of your wolfish snapping at me:
He will protect me.
Goneril: