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, and if you will: 
     If heav’n be pleas’d that you must use me ill,
     Why then you must.—­Will you put out mine eyes? 
     These eyes, that never did, and never shall,
     So much as frown on you?

   Hubert.  I’ve sworn to do it;
     And with hot irons must I burn them out.

   Arthur.  Oh if an angel should have come to me,
     And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
     I would not have believ’d a tongue but Hubert’s. 
     Hubert, Come forth; do as I bid you.
     [Stamps, and the men enter.]

   Arthur.  O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out
     Ev’n 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 heav’n’s 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 angrily: 
    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.

   Executioner.  I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed. [Exit.]

   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 heav’n! that there were but a mote in yours,
     A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand’ring hair,
     Any annoyance in that precious sense! 
     Then, feeling what small things are boist’rous there,
     Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

   Hubert.  Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

   Arthur.  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 heav’n hath blown its spirit out,
     And strew’d repentant ashes on its head.

   Hubert.  But with my breath I can revive it, boy.