_A lord._ What does he mean? Is this some princely revel? _Another lord._ It may be, And our part is to smile. _Win._ [_To Pembroke_] Mark you earl Kent? He changes face. _Pem._ And his pale friend, lord Wynne, Turns corpse on 's feet. _Win._ Ha! Is it possible They were not privy to this kingly move? [_Re-enter Henry, leading Glaia_] _Hen._ Here, dear my lords! Look on my choice and say That here might come Rome's vestals to repair Their tapers dim. Is she not royal, friends? See how her eyes look bravely into yours, Though on her cheek a sweet timidity Doth couch in coral. Now commend me, all! And Hubert, earl of Kent, say whence is she, And what her parentage? For all I know Is that I found her bowered in Greenot woods. _Kent._ My God! _Hen._ O, Hubert, muffle up the storm Rides on your brow, and smile upon my love! _Kent._ Believe me, sire, she can not be your wife. _Hen._ Not be my wife? Unsay the words, dear Hubert. You mean, perhaps, she's humbler born than I-- The daughter of a duke--an earl--a lord-- Ay, say a knight that bravely bore his shield, And all the gap 'twixt her degree and mine Her native graces will bridge o'er and make Her way unto my throne. _Kent._ [_Kneeling_] O, king beloved, You must believe me! She can not be yours! _Hen._ Then, Heaven, turn foul, thou dost not shine for me! Rise, Hubert, rise, for I must love you still, Though you have robbed me of the sun and stars. _Kent._ [_Rises_] My noblest sovereign! _Hen._ Now let me hear Why this ne'er mated dove can not be mine, And I'll attend thee patient as the dead Do list their requiem. _Kent._ Sire, I am pledged. Such sacred oaths are warders at my lips That angels would turn pale in Heaven to hear Their violation. _Hen._ Oaths? We must not hear? _Kent._ Not from my lips. It may be from another's In better time. _Hen._ In better time? By Heaven, You shall uncover here her history, And I myself shall say if she may be My own or no! _Kent._ Thy mercy on a man In one hour old! _Hen._ You are the torturer! O, Hubert, Hubert, I am on my knees! _Kent._ Sire, give me leave to go, and take this maid, So long my care that I must keep her still. Come, Glaia--child--'tis Hubert takes thy hand. My sovereign lord, I go with sorrow hence. I would my tongue were torn from its curst root Than speak you woe,--but do not hope, my liege, Your husband hand can ever touch this maid. The thought to ague shakes my soul!