CHARLES (_twittingly_): Some rendezvous?
Who is she? Ah, young blood and Spring and night!
HAEMON: No rendezvous, my lord.
CHARLES: Some lay then you
Would muse on?
HAEMON: Yes, a lay.
CHARLES: And one of love?
The word, you see, founts easy to my lips.
(_With confidential archness._) 'Tis recent in my thought--as
you will learn.
HAEMON: How, sir, and when?
CHARLES: O, when? Be not surprised!--
Well, to the lay!
(_He goes._
HAEMON: Cruel! His soldiers waste
The bread of honesty, the hope of age!
Are drunken, bloody, indolent, and lust
To tear all innocence away and robe
Our loveliest in shame!--Yet me, a Greek,
He suddenly befriends!