FIRST EXECUTIONER. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to’t. [_Exeunt Executioners._] Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter Arthur. ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert. HUBERT. Good morrow, little prince. ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. HUBERT. Indeed, I have been merrier. ARTHUR. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody 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 Geoffrey’s son? No, indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. HUBERT. [_Aside_.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead. Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale today. 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. HUBERT. [_Aside_.] His words do take possession of my bosom. 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 handkercher 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, Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time, Saying ’What lack you?” and “Where lies your grief?” Or “What good love may I perform for you?” Many a poor man’s son would have lien still And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning. Do, an if you will. If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill, Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you? HUBERT. I have sworn to do it. And with hot irons must I burn them out.