His curse on us my babe will never smile.
Hild. Poor Girl, thy child is dead.
Marg. Nay, nay, ’tis only this dread awful curse.
You are a kind old man, you’ll go with me,
And plead with me unto that terrible Pope,
And make him take this curse from off our lives,
An’ make my baby smile.
Hild. What curse, my daughter?
Marg. Take me but to him, I will tell it all,