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My coach for the love of Heaven, my coach! In good truth, I shall swoune else. Hamlet. After a little conversation between mother and daughter, which we must leave out, Hamlet enters again: Hamlet. Your coach is coming, madam. Gertrud. That's well said. Now Heaven! methinks I am eene up to the knees in preferment.... But a little higher, but a little higher, but a little higher!
They meet, and then "to telle the joyes that were between la Beale Isoud and sire Tristram, there is no tongue can telle it, nor herte thinke it, nor pen wryte it." When Tristram thought Isoud unfaithful, he "made grete sorowe in so much that he fell downe of his hors in a swoune, and in suche sorowe he was in thre dayes and thre nyghtes."
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