His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle. His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. Enter a Son that has killed his father, dragging in the dead body Son Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. To some man else, as this dead man doth me. And I, who at his hands received my life, him Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
For I have bought it with an hundred blows. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. As Priam was for all his valiant sons. For I have murdered where I should not kill. I'll away before.