ARTHUR: Good morrow, Hubert.

HUBERT: Good morrow, little prince.

ARTHUR: As little prince, having so great a title

To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.

HUBERT: Indeed, I have been merrier.

ARTHUR: Mercy on me!

Methinks no body should be sad but I:

Yet, I remember, when I was in France,

Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,

Only for wantonness. By my christendom,

So I were out of prison and kept sheep,

I should be as merry as the day is long;

And so I would be here, but that I doubt

My uncle practises more harm to me:

He is afraid of me and I of him:

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?

No, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

HUBERT: [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate

He will awake my mercy which lies dead: