He will awake my mercy, which lies dead;
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. |[Aside.|
Arthur. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day?
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might sit all night and watch with you.
Alas, I love you more than you do me.
Hubert. His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur— |[Shewing a paper.|
How now, foolish rheum, |[Aside.|
Turning dis-piteous torture out of door!