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KING. Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither; We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon; The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper than oblivion do we bury Th’ incensing relics of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and inform him So ’tis our will he should.

GENTLEMAN. I shall, my liege.

[Exit Gentleman.]

KING. What says he to your daughter? Have you spoke?

LAFEW. All that he is hath reference to your highness.

KING. Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me That sets him high in fame.

Enter Bertram.

LAFEW. He looks well on ’t.

KING. I am not a day of season, For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail In me at once. But to the brightest beams Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth; The time is fair again.

BERTRAM. My high-repented blames Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

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