FERNEZE. Look, Katharine, look! thy son gave mine these wounds.

KATHARINE. O, leave to grieve me! I am griev'd enough.

FERNEZE. O, that my sighs could turn to lively breath,
And these my tears to blood, that he might live!

KATHARINE. Who made them enemies?

FERNEZE. I know not; and that grieves me most of all.

KATHARINE. My son lov'd thine.

FERNEZE. And so did Lodowick him.

KATHARINE. Lend me that weapon that did kill my son,
And it shall murder me.

FERNEZE. Nay, madam, stay; that weapon was my son's,
And on that rather should Ferneze die.

KATHARINE. Hold; let's inquire the causers of their deaths,
That we may venge their blood upon their heads.

FERNEZE. Then take them up, and let them be interr'd
Within one sacred monument of stone;
Upon which altar I will offer up
My daily sacrifice of sighs and tears,
And with my prayers pierce impartial heavens,