Ant. So was Andrugio, my dearest father.
Pan. So was Feliche, my dearest son.
Enter Maria.
Mar. So was Andrugio my dearest husband.
Ant. My father found no pity in thy blood.
Pan. Remorse was banish’d, when thou slew’st my son.
Mar. When thou empoisoned’st my loving lord,
Exiled was piety.
Ant. Now therefore pity, piety, remorse, 90
Be aliens to our thoughts; grim fire-ey’d rage
Possess us wholly.
Pan. Thy son? true; and which is my most joy,
I hope no bastard, but thy very blood,
Thy true-begotten, most legitimate
And lovèd issue—there’s the comfort on’t.
Ant. Scum of the mud of hell!