The things we do!

I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide!
But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde:
That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound,
Untimely sent thy mother to the ground:
Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother;
Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother.
_Allen_. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyce
To have such power in my death-bringing voice,
See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes;
Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes,
I doe behold with cheerefull countenance
The livelesse roote of my nativitie,
And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe
To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.--
Now, father, give attention to my tale;
I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue
In bitter wordes of reprehension.
Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head
Then wit or reason can remove againe;
For to be briefe, _Pertillo_, (oh that name
Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!)
Is murthered, and--
_Fal_. What and? this newes is good.
_Allen_. The men which you suborn'd to murther him--
_Fal_.


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