To let these hands obey my blood.
They are apt enough to dislocate and tear
Thy flesh and bones:--howe'er thou art a fiend,
A woman's shape doth shield thee.

Gon.
Marry, your manhood now!

[Enter a Messenger.]

Alb.
What news?

Mess.
O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall's dead;
Slain by his servant, going to put out
The other eye of Gloster.

Alb.
Gloster's eyes!

Mess.
A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Oppos'd against the act, bending his sword
To his great master; who, thereat enrag'd,
Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead;
But not without that harmful stroke which since
Hath pluck'd him after.

Alb.