Make my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale

Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,
Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse

An. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,
And teares will quickly melt thy life away.

Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.

What doest thou strike at Marcus with knife

Mar. At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Fly
An. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart,
Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie:
A deed of death done on the Innocent
Becoms not Titus brother: get thee gone,
I see thou art not for my company

Mar. Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie

An. But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buz lamenting doings in the ayer,
Poore harmelesse Fly,
That with his pretty buzing melody,
Came heere to make vs merry,
And thou hast kil'd him

Mar. Pardon me sir,