I should be as merry as the day is long; Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son ? No, indeed, is't not; And I would to heaven, 20 [Asile. Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to day: In sooth, I would you were a little sick; That I might sit all night, and watch with you: I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur How now, foolish rheum! [Shewing a Paper. Turning dispiteous torture out of door? I must be brief; lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: [Aside. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Hub. Young boy, I must. Arth. And will you? Hub. And I will. 40 Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ake, I knit my handkerchief about your brows (The |