Paul. I pray you, do not push me; I'll be gone.
Look to your babe, my lord; 'tis yours: [Jove] send [her]
A [better guiding] spirit! What [needs] these hands?
You, that are thus so tender o'er his follies,
Will never do him good, not one of you.
So, so: farewell; we are gone. [Exit.
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Leon. [Thou,] traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.
My child? away [with't!] Even [thou], that hast
A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence