ARTHUR.
Alas, I then have chid away my friend!
He hath a stern look but a gentle heart.
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
HUBERT.
Come, boy, prepare yourself.
ARTHUR.
Is there no remedy?
HUBERT.
None, but to lose your eyes.
ARTHUR.
O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
HUBERT.
Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.
ARTHUR.
Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes.
Let me not hold my tongue. Let me not, Hubert,
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold
And would not harm me.
HUBERT.
I can heat it, boy.
ARTHUR.
No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us’d
In undeserv’d extremes. See else yourself.
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out
And strew’d repentant ashes on his head.
HUBERT.
But with my breath I can revive it, boy.