Corn. Alas! I would not pray for him yet. He may live to lay me i’ th’ ground, and pray for me, if you’ll let me come to him.
Enter Brachiano, all armed, save the Bearer, with Flamineo and Page.
Brach. Was this your handy-work?
Flam. It was my misfortune.
Corn. He lies, he lies; he did not kill him. These have killed him, that would not let him be better looked to.
Brach. Have comfort, my griev’d mother.
Corn. O, you screech-owl!
Hor. Forbear, good madam.
Corn. Let me go, let me go.
(She runs to Flamineo with her knife drawn, and coming to him, lets it fall).