Belv. Lay me, I beg you, lay me
By the dear ashes of my tender mother:
She would have pitied me, had fate yet spared her.
Priu. By Heaven, my aching heart forebodes much mischief.
Tell me thy story, for I'm still thy father.
Belv. No, I'm contented,
Priu. Speak.
Belv. No matter.
Priu. Tell me.
By yon blest Heaven, my heart runs o'er with fondness!
Belv. Oh!
Priu. Utter it.
Belv. Oh, my husband, my dear husband
Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom,
To pierce the heart of your poor Belvidera.
Priu. Kill thee?