DEMETRIUS.
Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus?
CHIRON.
Belike for joy the emperor hath a son.
DEMETRIUS.
Soft, who comes here?
Enter Nurse with a blackamoor Child in her arms.
NURSE.
Good morrow, lords.
O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?
AARON.
Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all,
Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?
NURSE.
O gentle Aaron, we are all undone!
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!
AARON.
Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thy arms?
NURSE.
O, that which I would hide from heaven’s eye,
Our empress’ shame and stately Rome’s disgrace.
She is delivered, lords, she is delivered.
AARON.
To whom?