Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:
If heav’n be pleas’d that you must use me ill,
Why then you must——Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, and never shall,
So much as frown on you?
Hubert. I’ve sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Arthur. Oh if an angel should have come to me,
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,