no cause to say so yet, But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow, Yet it shall come from me to do thee good. I had a thing to say, but let it go: The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton and too full of gawds To give me audience: if the midnight bell Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, Sound on into the drowsy race of night; If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs, Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick, Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, A passion hateful to my purposes, Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, Hear me without thine ears, and make reply Without a tongue, using conceit alone, Without eyes, ears and harmful sound of words; Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts: But, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well; And, by my troth, I think thou lovest me well. So well, that what you bid me undertake, Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By heaven, I would do it. Do not I know thou wouldst? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend, He is a very serpent in my way; And whereso'er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me: dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper. And I'll keep him so, That he shall not offend your majesty. Death. My lord? A grave. He shall not live. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee; Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee: Remember. Madam, fare you well: I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty. My blessing go with thee! For England, cousin, go: Hubert shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho! So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, A whole armado of convicted sail Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well. What can go well, when we have run so ill? Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain? And bloody England into England gone, O'erbearing interruption