Phil. Know me blacker still!
Since hate must be the bond between our hearts,
I'll burn this into thine—thy father's death
Was by my hand made sure, that I might woo
Your foolish mother, who drank in turn my cup.
Yet shall I wear the blossom of your love
Fair on my bosom, and the fruit shall grow
To propagate my house. So silent, madam?
Is not this news? You would not coo for me;
May I not hear you rave?