Hel.
'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.
Nothing in France until he has no wife!
Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France,
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war? and is it I,
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoaky musquets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim, move the still-piercing air
That ^{d note}sings with piercing, do not touch my lord:
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there.
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to it,
And tho' I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected. Better 'twere
I met the rav'ning lion when he roar'd
With sharp constraint of hunger: better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all. I will be gone:
My being here it is that holds thee hence.
Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all; I will be gone,
That pitiful rumour may report my flight
To consolate thine ear. Come night, end day,
For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away. [Exit.

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