Ant. Behold, black dog!
Pan. Grinn’st thou, thou snurling[320] cur?
Alb. Eat thy black liver.
Ant. To thine anguish see
A fool triumphant in thy misery.
Vex him, Balurdo.
Pan. He weeps; now do I glorify my hands;
I had no vengeance, if I had no tears.
Ant. Fall to, good Duke. O these are worthless cates,
You have no stomach to them; look, look here:
Here lies a dish to feast thy father’s gorge. 80
[Uncovering the dish that contains Lucio’s limbs.
Here’s flesh and blood, which I am sure thou lov’st.
[Piero seems to condole his son.
Pan. Was he thy flesh, thy son, thy dearest son?