KINGAnd England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,—As my great power thereof may give thee sense,Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and redAfter the Danish sword, and thy free awePays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly setOur sovereign processa royal warrant or authoritative legal command., which imports at full,By letters conjuring to that effect,The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;For like the hectic in my blood he rages,And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done,Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun.