Lor. More soundly.

Bar.‍That's an error, and you'll find it

Ere you sleep with your fathers.

Lor.‍They sleep not

In their accelerated graves, nor will330

Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them

Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards

The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance.

Bar. Fancy's distemperature! There is no passion

More spectral or fantastical than Hate;