Hen. Have ye knockt his brains out?
Car. I warrant thee for stirring more: cheer up, child.
Hen. Hold my sides hard, stop, stop, oh wretched fortune,
Must we part thus? Still I grow sicker, Uncle.
Car. Heaven look upon this noble child.
Hen. I once hop'd
I should have liv'd to have met these bloody Romans
At my swords point, to have reveng'd my Father,
To have beaten 'em: oh hold me hard. But Uncle—
Car. Thou shalt live still I hope Boy. Shall I draw it?
Hen. Ye draw away my soul then, I would live
A little longer; spare me heavens, but only
To thank you for your tender love. Good Uncle,
Good noble Uncle weep not.
Car. Oh my chicken,
My dear Boy, what shall I lose?
Hen. Why, a child,
That must have died however: had this scap'd me,
Feaver or famine—I was born to die, Sir.
Car. But thus unblown, my boy?