Hip. O treacherous duke!
Doct. He cannot hope so certainly for bliss,
As he believes that I have poisoned you:
He wooed me to’t; I yielded, and confirmed him
In his most bloody thoughts.
Hip. A very devil!
Doct. Her did he closely coach to Bergamo,
And thither—
Hip. Will I ride: stood Bergamo
In the low countries of black hell, I’ll to her.
Doct. You shall to her, but not to Bergamo:
How passion makes you fly beyond yourself.
Much of that weary journey I ha’ cut off;
For she by letters hath intelligence
Of your supposed death, her own interment,
And all those plots, which that false duke, her father,
Has wrought against you; and she’ll meet you—
Hip. Oh, when?
Doct. Nay, see; how covetous are your desires!
Early to-morrow morn.
Hip. Oh where, good father?
Doct. At Bethlem Monastery: are you pleased now?