Bast. Once more to-day well met, distemper'd lords!
The king by me requests your presence straight.
Sal. The king hath dispossess'd himself of us:
We will not line his thin bestained cloak[519]
With our pure honours, nor attend the foot25
That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks.
Return and tell him so: we know the worst.
Bast. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.
Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
Bast. But there is little reason in your grief;30
Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now.
Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.[520]
Bast. 'Tis true, to hurt his master, no man else.[520][521]
Sal. This is the prison. What is he lies here?
[Seeing Arthur.[522]
Pem. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!35
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.