CH. What rage, what madness, clutched
The mischief-working brand?
How could her single thought
Contrive the accomplishment of death on death?
NUR. Chill iron stopped the sources of her breath.
CH. And thou, poor helpless crone, didst see this done?
NUR. Yea, I stood near and saw.
CH. How was it? Tell!
NUR. With her own hand this violence was given.
CH. What do I hear?
NUR. The certainty of truth.
CH. A child is come,
From this new bridal that hath rushed within,
A fresh-born Fury of woe!
NUR. Too true. But hadst thou been at hand to see
Her action, pity would have wrung thy soul.