And upward so, till thou dost reach the heart,
And wrap him in the cloak of lasting night.[1]
Bar. Let not, my lord, your thoughts sink you thus low;
But, be advis’d; for, should your gallant troops
Behold you thus, they might fall sick with fear.
Enter an Officer.
Off. My lord! my lord!
Vor. Wherefore dost tremble thus, paper-fac’d knave?
What news should make thee break thus rudely in?
Off. Indeed, indeed, I fear to tell you, sir.