Chief of the Ten.If it be so,
We will remit him till the rites are over.
Let us return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow.
Lor. (aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's hell-fire upon your tongue,
Unquenched, unquenchable! I'll have it torn
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this! Sage Signors,
I pray ye be not hasty.[Aloud to the others.
Bar.But be human!160
Lor. See, the Duke comes!