Aml. Misericorde! what do I see!
Dick. Fiends and hags—the witch my mother!
Aml. Nay, 'tis he! ah, my poor Dick, what art thou doing here?
Dick. What a misfortune——
[Aside.
Aml. Good lard! how bravely deck'd art thou. But it's all one, I am thy mother still: and tho' thou art a wicked child, nature will speak, I love thee still, ah, Dick, my poor Dick.
[Embracing him.
Dick. Blood and thunder! will you ruin me?
[Breaking from her.