ALMACHILDES. ALMACHILDES. King, till the wrong I have wrought be wreaked or healed I clasp not hands with honour. Nay, and then Perchance I may not. ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. Boy I called thee: child I call thee now. But, boy, the child thou art Is noble as our sires. ALMACHILDES. ALMACHILDES. Would God it were! [Exit. ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. What ails him? ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. Love and shame. ALBOVINE. ALBOVINE. No more than these? ROSAMUND.
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