Thier. O never I, never, the eyes of heaven
See but their certaine motions, and then sleepe,
The rages of the Ocean have their slumbers,
And quiet silver calmes; each violence
Crownes in his end a peace, but my fixt fires
Shall never, never set, who's that?
Enter Martell, Brunhalt, Devitry, souldiers.
Mart. No woman,
Mother of mischiefe, no, the day shall die first,
And all good things live in a worse then thou art,
Ere thou shalt sleepe, doest thou see him?
Brun. Yes, and curse him,
And all that love him foole, and all live by him.
Mart. Why art thou such a monster?
Brun. Why art thou
So tame a knave to aske me?
Mart. Hope of hell,
By this faire holy light, and all his wrongs
Which are above thy yeares, almost thy vices,
Thou shalt not rest, not feele more what is pitty,
Know nothing necessary, meete no society,
But what shall curse and crucifie thee, feele in thy selfe
Nothing but what thou art, bane, and bad conscience,
Till this man rest; but for whose reverence
Because thou art his mother, I would say
Whore, this shall be, do ye nod? ile waken ye
With my swords point.
Brun. I wish no more of heaven,
Nor hope no more, but a sufficient anger
To torture thee.
Mart. See, she that makes you see Sir,
And to your misery still see, your mother,
The mother of your woes Sir, of your waking,
The mother of your peoples cries, and curses,
Your murdering mother, your malicious mother: