matter breeds for you Than I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge Is now in England, ransacking the church, Offending charity: if but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side, Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the king: 'tis wonderful What may be wrought out of their discontent, Now that their souls are topful of offence. For England go: I will whet on the king. Strong reasons make strong actions: let us go: If you say ay, the king will not say no. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, And bind the boy which you shall find with me Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Good morrow, Hubert. Good morrow, little prince. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. Indeed, I have been merrier. Mercy on me! Methinks no body should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me: He is afraid of me and I of him: Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. 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. His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur. How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ? Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect