Page 847 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

His death was so effected. Better ‘twere
I met the ravin lion when he roared
With sharp constraint of hunger; better ‘twere
That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rossillion, [120]
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 [125]
And angels officed 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.

Scene III IT

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, drum and trumpets,
soldiers, Parolles.

DUKE
The general of our horse thou art, and we,
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

Upon thy promising fortune.

BERTRAM
Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet
We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake [5]
To th’extreme edge of hazard.

DUKE

Then go thou forth,
And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm
As thy auspicious mistress!