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?
HUB. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
ARTH. 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?
And 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--
HUB. Come forth. [_Stamps.
Re-enter_ Attendants, _with Cords, Irons, etc._
Do as I bid you do.
ARTH. O, save me, Hubert, save me? my eyes are out,
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
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