Hip. Fie, my lord!
Lus. I, in kind loyalty to my father's forehead,
Made this a desperate arm; and in that fury
Committed treason on the lawful bed,
And with my sword e'en ras'd my father's bosom,
For which I was within a stroke of death.
Hip. Alack! I'm sorry. 'Sfoot, just upon the stroke,
Jars in my brother; 'twill be villainous music.
Enter Vendice.
Ven. My honour'd lord.
Lus. Away! prythee, forsake us: hereafter we'll not know thee.
Ven. Not know me, my lord! your lordship cannot choose.
Lus. Begone. I say: thou art a false knave.
Ven. Why, the easier to be known, my lord.
Lus. Pish! I shall prove too bitter, with a word
Make thee a perpetual prisoner,
And lay this iron age upon thee.