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Marc.

I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring

Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father—

Prin.

Dead, for my life!

Marc.

Even so: my tale is told.

Ber.

Worthies, away! the scene begins to cloud.

Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.

Exeunt Worthies.

King.

How fares your Majesty?

Prin.

Boyet, prepare, I will away to-night.

King.

Madam, not so, I do beseech you stay.

Prin.

Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,

For all your fair endeavors, and entreat,

Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide,

The liberal opposition of our spirits,

If overboldly we have borne ourselves

In the converse of breath—your gentleness

Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!

A heavy heart bears not a humble tongue.

Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks

For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

King.

The extreme parts of time extremely forms