Senex.
Ay, sir.
Hieronimo.
No, sir, it was my murdered son: O my son,
O my son, O my son Horatio!
But mine or thine, Bazulto, be content.
Here, take my handkerchief, and wipe thine eyes,
Whiles wretched I in thy mishaps may see
The lively portrait of my dying self.
[He draweth out a bloody napkin.
O no, not this, Horatio, this was thine;
And when I dy'd it in thy dearest blood,
This was a token 'twixt thy soul and me,
That of thy death revenged I should be.
But here, take this and this——
Senex.
What, thy purse?——
Hieronimo.
Ay, this and that, and all of them are thine;
For all as one are our extremities.