Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so dear.
Hieronimo.
What, not as thine? that is a lie,
As massy as the earth: I had a son,
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh
A thousand of thy sons; and he was murder'd.
Painter.
Alas! sir, I had no more but he.
Hieronimo.
Nor I, nor I: but this same one of mine
Was worth a legion. But all is one.
Pedro, Jaques, go in a-doors: Isabella, go,
And this good fellow here and I
Will range this hideous orchard up and down,
Like to two lions reaved of their young.
Go in a-doors, I say. [Exeunt.
[The Painter and he sit down.