CAMBER. CAMBER. Yea, by my kingdom hast thou—by my sword, Yea. Now speak on. DEBON. DEBON. Yet hope—or honour—saith I did not ill to trust the blood of Brute Within thee. Not prince Hector’s sovereign soul, The light of all thy lineage, more abhorred Treason than all his days did Brute my lord. My trust shall rest not in thee less than whole. CAMBER. CAMBER. Speak, then: too long thou falterest nigh the goal. DEBON. DEBON. There is a bower built fast beside a ford In Essex, held in sure and secret ward Of woods and walls and waters, still and sole As love could choose for harbourage: there the king Keeps close from all men now these seven years since The light wherein he lives: and there hath she Borne him a maiden child more sweet than spring. CAMBER. CAMBER. A child her daughter? there now hidden? DEBON. DEBON. Prince, What ails thee? CAMBER. CAMBER.
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