To remisse vnto your Honour.

LOR. How now, Hieronimo?

HIERO. In troth, my lord, it is a thing of nothing:
The murder of a sonne or so, my lord, --
A thing of nothing.

[End of insertion.]

LOR. Why then, farewell!

HIERO. My griefe in hart, my thoughts no tung can tell.

Exit.

LOR. Come hither, Pedringano; seest thou this?

PED. My lord, I see it, and suspect it too.

LOR. This is that damned villain Serberine,
That hath, I feare, reuealde Horatios death.

PED. My lord, he could not; twas so lately done,
And since he hath not left my company.

LOR. Admit he haue not; his conditions such
As feare or flattering words may make him false.
I know his humour, and there-with repent
That ere I vsde him in this enterprise.