To be sued to in vain—to mark our tears,
And hoard our groans—to gaze upon the wreck
Which you have made a Prince's son—my husband;
In short, to trample on the fallen—an office330
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him!
How have you sped? We are wretched, Signor, as
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us,
And how feel you?
Lor.As rocks.
Mar.By thunder blasted: