275 What, stain’d with blood!
[276] Approach, ye Furies fell!
O Fates, come, come,
Cut thread and thrum;
Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!
[280] The. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
Pyr. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame?
[284] Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear:
285 Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame