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Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies.

Leon.

I know not. If they speak but truth of her,

These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honor,

The proudest of them shall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,

Nor age so eat up my invention,

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,

Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,

But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind,

Both strength of limb, and policy of mind,

Ability in means, and choice of friends,

To quit me of them throughly.

Friar.

Pause awhile,

And let my counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here the [princes] left for dead,

Let her awhile be secretly kept in,

And publish it that she is dead indeed.

Maintain a mourning ostentation,

And on your family’s old monument

Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites

That appertain unto a burial.

Leon.

What shall become of this? what will this do?

Friar.

Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf

Change slander to remorse; that is some good.

But not for that dream I on this strange course,