The sister of that tyrant?
Pro. There was one
Who mourn’d for being childless! Let him now
Feast o’er his children’s graves, and I will join
The revelry!
Mon. (apart.) You shall be childless too!
Pro. Was’t you, Montalba!—Now rejoice, I say!
There is no name so near you that its stains
Should call the fever’d and indignant blood
To your dark cheek! But I will dash to earth