None of my mother's children, gossips said,
Were born with a sad face; but I could wish
That I had never smiled, or that her maid
Had been my mother, rather than that I
Had been the bearer of this day's vile tidings.

_Sir Alex_.--'Tis of my sons!--what! what of them, Lord Percy?
What of them?

_Percy_.--Yes, 'tis of your sons I'd speak!--
They live--they're well!--can you be calm to hear me?
I _would_ speak of your sons.

_Sir Alex_.--I feel!--I feel!
I understand you, Percy! you WOULD speak of my sons!--
Go, thrust thy head into a lion's den,
Murder its whelps, and say to it, _Be calm_!
Be calm! and feel a dagger in thy heart!
'Twas kindly said!--kind! kind! to say, _Be calm_!
I'm calm, Lord Percy! what--what of my sons?

_Percy_.--If I can tell thee, and avoid being choked--
Choked with my shame and loathing--I will tell thee!
But each particular word of this black mission
Is like a knife thrust in between my teeth.

_Sir Alex_.--Torture me not, my lord, but speak the worst;
My ears can hear--my heart can hold no more!

_Enter_ LADY SETON.