I know it. Your servant, sire, am I, Who lived so long your sire’s. CAMBER. CAMBER. And how had he Endured thy silence or sustained thy scorn? Why must I know not what thou knowest of? DEBON. DEBON. Why? Hast thou not heard, king, that a true man’s trust Is king for him of life and death? Locrine Hath sealed with trust my lips—nay, prince, not mine— His are they now. CAMBER. CAMBER. Thou art wise as he, and just, And secret. God requite thee! yea, he must, For man shall never. If my sword here shine Sunward—God guard that reverend head of thine! DEBON. DEBON. My blood should make thy sword the sooner rust, And rot thy fame for ever. Strike. CAMBER. CAMBER. Thou knowest I will not. Am I Scythian born, or Greek, That I should take thy bloodshed on my hand? DEBON. DEBON. Nay—if thou seest me soul to soul, and showest Mercy— CAMBER.
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