Corn. O that this fair garden
Had with all poison'd herbs of Thessaly
At first been planted; made a nursery
For witchcraft, rather than a burial plot
For both your honours!


Vit. Dearest mother, hear me.


Corn. O, thou dost make my brow bend to the earth.
Sooner than nature! See the curse of children!
In life they keep us frequently in tears;
And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears.


Brach. Come, come, I will not hear you.


Vit. Dear my lord.


Corn. Where is thy duchess now, adulterous duke?
Thou little dream'st this night she 's come to Rome.


Flam. How! come to Rome!


Vit. The duchess!