Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper.]

[Aside.] 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?

ARTHUR.
Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

HUBERT.
Young boy, I must.

ARTHUR.
And will you?

HUBERT.
And I will.

ARTHUR.
Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief 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 head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,