What! think ye this to be your mistress’ chamber?
Bar. My gracious prince, we wait your orders here.
Vor. Then fight, I say.
Go, get you hence.
Bar. I’m all obedience.
Vor. No, no; thou must stay here: thou’rt my sole prop.
I sicken fast, and ’gin again to flag.
Pour forth, I pray thee now, some flatt’ring words,
For I am weary, and my lamp of life
Doth sadly linger, and would fain go out;