Smite all ill-doers; ay, smite me with death,
Triumphant Ares, if within my body,
My lord being dead, there is either hope or love
That may be callèd life. I would not live,
I have no cause to live: but O my son—
Spare him!
2nd Maid. O lady, ’tis not him, but us
Ares will slay.
Pen.Look, look again.
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