BOMELIO.
Noting, by my trot'; but do as you please.
DUKE.
My son, my wretched son! and whom dost thou suppose
Thy greatest enemy amongst thy father's foes?
It is Hermione: 'tis he, and none but he.
He hath now proved himself, indeed, thy greatest enemy.
Where lives the wretch? That he were ta'en, and we revenged be?
PENULO.
And must his dearest blood, in his tenderest part,
Help him in his speech? that's an excellent art.
But what part is that, my masters, now about a man
That is the tenderest? guess it, and you can.
I can tell what part a woman thinks tenderest to be,
And there is dear blood in it—but benedicite.
And do you think, sir, there is none but he,
That can be thought his greatest enemy?
I have heard it said, there is no hate
Like to a brother or sister's, if they fall at debate.
I will not say, but you may think it as well as I,
If you mark since her coming home his sister's cruelty,
And the continual rancour she beareth unto him.
BOMELIO.
Is te maid his sister? be Got, den, he say tim.
Bin mine fait' and trot', ser, 'tis true dat he say:
His sister be his greatest enemy to-day.
DUKE.
And must I kill my daughter to help my son to speech?
I'll never do it.
PENULO.
See how a doth beseech!—
I would all our daggers were of his quality,
They should not brawl with a man, then, so for his money.
BOMELIO.
You kill your daughter! fie, no point so.
Her dearest blood in tenderest part me will show:
'Tis in her paps, her dugs, for der be de tenderest part,
And de blood de dearest; it comes from de heart.
So she be prick'd a little under de breast,
And wash his tongue-a, he speak wit' de best.
DUKE.
This thing is somewhat easier, if she consent thereto;
If not, I can enforce and make her it to do.
Penulo, despatch, and to my marshal bear
This signet for a token that he send her to us here.
PENULO. I will, my lord. [Exit.
DUKE.
He that hath felt the zeal, the tender love and care:
The fear, the grief that parents dear unto their children bear,
He may, and only he, conceive mine, inward woe,
Distracted thus 'twixt two extremes that hale me to and fro.
Sometime mistrusting that, and then misliking this—
Have parents such a cause of joy, or is it such a bliss
To see the offspring of their seed in health before them now?
O, little know they what mishap awaits the death for you.
But, son, my dearest son, recomfort thou thy mind;
Fight against fortune and thy fates, when they be most unkind.
And since I understand what may recover thee,
Make sure account of it, myself will do it presently.
But, sir, I pray you, lest my daughter should by fear
Or fright[118] of it be sore abash'd, be always ready here
To stench her wound, when you see good.