Doct. And died, my lord.
Duke. Thou in that word
Hast pieced mine aged hours out with more years,
Than thou hast taken from Hippolito.
A noble youth he was, but lesser branches
Hindering the greater’s growth, must be lopt off,
And feed the fire. Doctor, we’re now all thine,
And use us so: be bold.
Doct. Thanks, gracious lord—
My honoured lord:—
Duke. Hum.
Doct. I do beseech your grace to bury deep,
This bloody act of mine.
Duke. Nay, nay, for that,
Doctor, look you to it, me it shall not move;
They’re cursed that ill do, not that ill do love.
Doct. You throw an angry forehead on my face:
But be you pleased backward thus far to look,
That for your good, this evil I undertook—
Duke. Ay, ay, we conster[205] so.
Doct. And only for your love.