Quick to my wife, and say I’d speak with her.
As yet, from those dull sluggards sent to Rome,
No tidings have I heard. But here she comes.
Enter Edmunda.
Edm. What is your pleasure, sir?
Vor. Where are my recreant son and daughter gone:
Nay, think not with those eye-drops to deceive me;
Tell me, I say,—thou know’st full well their flight!
Edm. If in these veins doth run the blood of life,
Or there be truth on earth, I know not of them.