Keeper. My lord, 'twill prove so. Here come the officers,
Into whose hands I must commit you.
Jun. Ha, officers! what? why?
Enter Officers.
1st Officer. You must pardon us, my lord:
Our office must be sound: here is our warrant,
The signet from the duke; you must straight suffer.
Jun. Suffer! I'll suffer you to begone; I'll suffer you
To come no more; what would you have me suffer?
2d Officer. My lord, those words were better chang'd to prayers.
The time's but brief with you: prepare to die.
Jun. Sure, 'tis not so!
3d Officer. It is too true, my lord.
Jun. I tell you 'tis not; for the duke my father
Deferr'd me till next sitting; and I look,
E'en every minute, threescore times an hour,
For a release, a trick wrought by my brothers.
1st Officer. A trick, my lord! if you expect such comfort,
Your hope's as fruitless as a barren woman:
Your brothers were the unhappy messengers,
That brought this powerful token for your death.