Hip. Do; draw all your weapons.
Duke. Where are your weapons? draw!
Cas., Pio., &c. The friar has gulled us of ’em.
Mat. O rare trick!
You ha’ learnt one mad point of arithmetic.
Hip. Why swells your spleen so high? against what bosom
Would you your weapons draw? her’s? ’tis your daughter’s:
Mine? ’tis your son’s.
Duke. Son?
Mat. Son, by yonder sun.
Hip. You cannot shed blood here but ’tis your own;
To spill your own blood were damnation:
Lay smooth that wrinkled brow, and I will throw
Myself beneath your feet:
Let it be ruggèd still and flinted ore,
What can come forth but sparkles, that will burn
Yourself and us? She’s mine; my claim’s most good;
She’s mine by marriage, though she’s yours by blood.
Ans. [Kneeling.] I have a hand, dear lord, deep in this act,
For I foresaw this storm, yet willingly
Put forth to meet it. Oft have I seen a father
Washing the wounds of his dear son in tears,
A son to curse the sword that struck his father,
Both slain i’ th’ quarrel of your families.
Those scars are now ta’en off; and I beseech you
To seal our pardon! All was to this end,
To turn the ancient hates of your two houses
To fresh green friendship, that your loves might look
Like the spring’s forehead, comfortably sweet:
And your vexed souls in peaceful union meet,
Their blood will now be yours, yours will be their’s,
And happiness shall crown your silver hairs.
Flu. You see, my lord, there’s now no remedy.