Till I have no wife I have nothing in France

“Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.”
Nothing in France until he has no wife.
Thou shalt have none, Rossillion, none in France.
Then hast thou all again.

O you leaden messengers
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; move the still-‘pearing air
That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.

Poor lord, is ‘t I
That chase thee from thy country and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war? And is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; move the still-‘pearing air
That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to ‘t;
And though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected. Better 'twere
I met the ravin lion when he roared
With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rossillion,
Whence honor but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all. I will be gone.
My being here it is that holds thee hence.
Shall I stay here to do ‘t? No, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house
And angels officed all. I will be gone,
That pitiful rumor may report my flight
To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day;
For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.