Which suffers not a son’s uplifted hand
To strike a father, be he e’er so vile.
Did he not give him birth, and nourish him?
And when thy direst foe becomes thy slave,
Say, shouldst thou use revenge? No, rather shame him
With pity and all-softening charity,
Then on a golden bed thou lay’st thy soul,
And art on earth a blessed angel.
Uter. Brother, I do commend thee for this deed;
Worthy a prince, worthy a Briton, too.