DEBON. DEBON. Now, Prince, may thine old born servant lift his brow As from the dust to thine, and answer—Nay. Nor canst thou turn this nay of mine to yea With all the lightning of thine eyes, I trow, Nor this my truth to treason. CAMBER. CAMBER. God us aid! Art thou not mad? Thou knowest what whispers crawl About the court with serpent sound and speed, Made out of fire and falsehood; or if made Not all of lies—it may be thus—not all— Black yet no less with poison. DEBON. DEBON. Prince, indeed I know the colour of the tongues of fire That feed on shame to slake the thirst of hate; Hell-black, and hot as hell: nor age nor state May pluck the fangs forth of their foul desire: I that was trothplight servant to thy sire, A king more kingly than the front of fate That bade our lives bow down disconsolate When death laid hold on him—for hope nor hire, Prince, would I lie to thee: nay, what avails Falsehood? thou knowest I would not. CAMBER. CAMBER. Why, thou art old; To thee could falsehood bear but fruitless fruit— Lean grafts and sour. I think thou wouldst not. DEBON. DEBON. Wales In such a lord lives happy: young and bold And yet not mindless of thy sire King Brute, Who loved his loyal servants even as they Loved him. Yea, surely, bitter were the fruit, Prince Camber, and the tree rotten at root That bare it, whence my tongue should take today For thee the taste of poisonous treason. CAMBER. CAMBER. Nay, What boots it though thou plight thy word to boot? True servant wast thou to my sire King Brute, And Brute thy king true master to thee.
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