And could not help—
Blan. And I too. O my son,
Scarce home with us, and all undone already!
Where are you going?
Lope. No where; nothing; leave me.
Viol. Tell me the quarrel—Oh! I dread to hear.
Lope. What quarrel, lady? let me go: your fears
Deceive you.
Blan. Lope, not an hour of peace
When you are here!