King. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester!
50 Glou. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.
[♦] [Aside to Car.] Now, by God’s mother, priest, I’ll shave your crown for this.
Or all my fence shall fail.
[♦] Car. [Aside to Glou.] Medice, teipsum—
Protector, see to’t well, protect yourself.
[55] King. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.
How irksome is this music to my heart!
When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?
I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.