Son, that you killed....
Well, it is done!
Well, it is done!
CESARE.
And if your Holiness
Will deign to listen—do not let the tongue
Be running and returning like a wheel:
All gossip of my action,
If you refrain, will end within his grave.
Unless you speak there cannot be an echo.
ALEXANDER.
Ay, ay—die out—the gossip will die out;
Ay, ay, if you would have it so....
The vaults? For we must bury him in private.
CESARE.
[As he nods.] Without bell-ringing and a storm of dirges.
ALEXANDER.
Lucrece!
Ah, she will weep her eyes out: rain, rain, rain,
Above this broken flower, this bridegroom.