Senex.
O worthy sir, my cause, but slightly known,
May move the hearts of warlike Myrmidons,
And melt the corsic[236] rocks with ruthful[237] tears.
Hieronimo.
Say, father, tell me what's thy suit?
Senex.
No, sir, could my woes
Give way unto my most distressful words,
Then should I not in paper (as you see)
With ink bewray what blood began in me.
Hieronimo.
What's here? The humble supplication of Don
Bazulto, for his murdered son.