O no, my loving brother of Navarre.
I have deserv'd a scourge I must confesse,
Yet is there pacience of another sort,
Then to misdoe the welfare of their King:
God graunt my neerest freends may prove no worse.
O horde me up, my sight begins to faire,
My sinnewes shrinke, my brain turns upside downe,
My heart doth break, I faint and dye.
