Haply the fire of hate is quite extinct
From the dead embers; now to rake them up,
Should the least spark of discontent appear,
To make the flame of hatred burn afresh,
The heat of this dissension might scorch us;
Which, in his own cold ashes smother'd up,
May die in silence, and revive no more:
And therefore tell me, is it best or no?

O. LUS. How say you, sir?

O. ART. I say it is not best.

O. LUS. Mass, you say well, sir, and so say I too.

O. ART. But shall we lose our labour to come hither,
And, without sight of our two children,
Go back again? nay, we will in, that's sure.

O. LUS. In, quotha! do you make a doubt of that;
Shall we come thus far, and in such post-haste,
And have our children here, and both within,
And not behold them e'er our back-return?
It were unfriendly and unfatherly.
Come, Master Arthur, pray you follow me.

O. ART. Nay, but hark you, sir, will you not knock?

O. LUS. Is't best to knock?