election may be truly read What kind of man he is. I honour him Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me, Is she sole child to the king? His only child. He had two sons: if this be worth your hearing, Mark it: the eldest of them at three years old, I' the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n, and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. How long is this ago? Some twenty years. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow, That could not trace them! Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. I do well believe you. We must forbear: here comes the gentleman, The queen, and princess. No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-eyed unto you: you're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win the offended king, I will be known your advocate: marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. Please your highness, I will from hence to-day. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the king Hath charged you should not speak together. O Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing-- Always reserved my holy duty--what His rage can do on me: you must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live, But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth: My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Be brief, I pray you: If the king come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. Yet I'll move him To walk this way: I never do him wrong, But