And fetch my surgeon to her. Come, my lord,
We'l now peruse our letter. Exeunt Mons[ieur], Guise. Lead her out.
Per. Furies rise 150
Out of the black lines, and torment his soule!
Tam. Hath my lord slaine my woman?
Beh. No, she lives.
Fri. What shall become of us?
Beh. All I can say,
Being call'd thus late, is briefe, and darkly this:—