Heart’s-ease for you; I pray make much of it:
I have left more for myself.
Fran. de’ Med. Lady, who’s this?
Cor. You are, I take it, the grave-maker.
Flam. So.
Zanche. ’T is Flamineo.
Cor. Will you make me such a fool? Here’s a white hand:
Can blood so soon be wash’d out? Let me see:
When screech-owls croak upon the chimney-tops,
And the strange cricket i’ the oven sings and hops,