ARTHUR. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron? An if an angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ’d him. No tongue but Hubert’s. HUBERT. [_Stamps_.] Come forth. Enter Executioners with cords, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do. ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. HUBERT. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist’rous-rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly. Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. FIRST EXECUTIONER. I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed. [_Exeunt Executioners._] ARTHUR. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare yourself. ARTHUR. Is there no remedy? HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes. ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. ARTHUR. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue. Let me not, Hubert, Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me. HUBERT. I can heat it, boy. ARTHUR. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us’d In undeserv’d extremes. See else yourself. There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out And strew’d repentant ashes on his head. HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. ARTHUR. An if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert. Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes; And, like a dog that is compell’d to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office. Only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.