Amb. One of the officers.
Sup. Desired news.
Amb. How now, my friend?
Officer. My lords, under your pardon, I am allotted
To that desertless office, to present you
With the yet bleeding head—
Sup. Ha, ha! excellent.
Amb. All's sure our own: brother, canst weep, think'st thou?
'Twould grace our flattery much; think of some dame:
'Twill teach thee to dissemble.
Sup. I have thought;—now for yourself.
Amb. Our sorrows are so fluent,
Our eyes o'erflow our tongues; words spoke in tears
Are like the murmurs of the waters—the sound
Is loudly heard, but cannot be distinguish'd.
Sup. How died he, pray?
Officer. O, full of rage and spleen.