The rooted hate the Britons bear the Scots
Is unto me an omen most propitious.
I have despatched my secret emissaries,
And the young princes, sons of the old king,
Long since for study, sojourners at Rome,
Even for them have I prepared honours:
For ere the moon shall twice have fill’d her orb,
Death shall entwine them with a crown immortal!
Enter Servants.
Ser. Two officers, my lord, await your leisure.