Hip. I do arrest thee, murderer! Set down.
Villains, set down that sorrow, ’tis all mine.
Duke. I do beseech you all, for my blood’s sake
Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath
Join in confederacy with your weapons’ points;
If he proceed to vex us, let your swords
Seek out his bowels: funeral grief loathes words.
Cas., Sin. Set on.
Hip. Set down the body!
Mat. O my lord!
You’re wrong! i’th’ open street? you see she’s dead.
Hip. I know she is not dead.
Duke. Frantic young man,
Wilt thou believe these gentlemen?—Pray speak—
Thou dost abuse my child, and mock’st the tears
That here are shed for her: if to behold
Those roses withered, that set out her cheeks:
That pair of stars that gave her body light,
Darkened and dim for ever; all those rivers
That fed her veins with warm and crimson streams
Frozen and dried up: if these be signs of death,
Then is she dead. Thou unreligious youth,
Art not ashamed to empty all these eyes
Of funeral tears, a debt due to the dead,
As mirth is to the living? Sham’st thou not
To have them stare on thee? hark, thou art cursed
Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak.
Hip. My lord——
Duke. What would’st thou have? Is she not dead?
Hip. Oh, you ha’ killed her by your cruelty!