[Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur.
Showing a paper
How now, foolish rheum!
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
mine eyes in tender womanish tears.
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Young boy, I must.
And will you?
And I will.
Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handercher about your brows,
The best I
had, a princess wrought it me,
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your
And like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time,
lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?'
Or 'What good love may I perform for you?'
Many a poor man's
son would have lien still
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love
And call it cunning: do, an if you will:
If heaven be
pleased that you must use me ill,
Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes that never
did nor never shall
So much as frown on you.
I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these
eyes, would drink my tears
And quench his fiery indignation
Even in the matter of mine innocence;
after that, consume away in rust
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard
than hammer'd iron?
An if an angel should have come to me
And told me Hubert should put out mine
I would not have believed him, no tongue but Hubert's.
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