My very hand, and not this poor mad woman's.
I slew them both. Oh, oh, oh!
Wynne. Dear my lord,
Leave grief unto the grave, that it best decks;
The living call us now.
Hen. You talk so, sir,
Who did not love her.
Wynne. O, my lord!
Hen. You did.
Forgive me, friend, that I forgot your heart.