Sir,
We have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager,
Would win some words of him.

To wisdom he's a fool that will not yield;
And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us,
We with our travels will endeavour us.

Wrong not yourself, then, noble Helicane;
But if the prince do live, let us salute him,
Or know what ground's made happy by his breath.
If in the world he live, we'll seek him out;
If in his grave he rest, we'll find him there;
And be ...

Know that our griefs are risen to the top,
And now at length they overflow their banks.

Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a word.

See, not a man in private conference
Or council has respect with him but he.

He had need mean better than his outward show
Can any way speak in his just commend;
For by his rusty outside he appears
To have practised more the whipstock than the lance.

They are, my liege;
And stay your coming to present themselves.

Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast!