Hip. My father?
The. Dost see this sword?
Hip. Aye!
The. Dost dread it?
Hip. No; the innocent have nought to fear;
The. Now by my crown, this is most base effrontery,
But 'tis in vain, thy mother hath told all,
Hath told how, with an impious love, thy heart
Hath turned to her's; how with an impure lip,
Thy words have pierced her to the soul.