Amb. That, as you please, my lord.
Sup. We must needs confess.
Some fathers would have entered into hate
So deadly-pointed, that before his eyes
He would ha' seen the execution sound[64]
Without corrupted favour.
Amb. But, my lord,
Your grace may live the wonder of all times,
In pard'ning that offence, which never yet
Had face to beg a pardon.
Duke. How's this?
Amb. Forgive him, good my lord; he's your own son:
And I must needs say, 'twas the viler done.
Sup. He's the next heir: yet this true reason gathers,
None can possess that dispossess their fathers.
Be merciful!—
Duke. Here's no step-mother's wit;
I'll try them both upon their love and hate.
[Aside.
Amb. Be merciful—although—
Duke. You have prevailed.
My wrath, like flaming wax, hath spent itself;
I know 'twas but some peevish moon[65] in him;
Go, let him be releas'd.