Fab. 'Twas terrible indeed.
Count. Ay, was it not?
And then the manner of it! think on that!
Disease, that robb'd me of two infant sons,
Approaching slow, bade me prepare to lose them;
I saw my lilies drooping; and, accustom'd
To see them dying, bore to see them dead:
But, Oh my Edmund!—Thou remember'st, Fabian,
How blithe he went to seek the forest's sport!
Fab. 'Would I could not remember!