Aar.
Come on, my lords, the better foot before;
Strait will I bring you to the loathsom pit,
Where I espied the Panther fast asleep.

Quin.
My sight is very dull, whate'er it bodes.

Mar.
And mine, I promise you; were't not for shame,
Well could I leave our sport to sleep a while. [Marcus falls into the pit.

Quin.
What, art thou fall'n? what subtle hole is this,
Whose mouth is cover'd with rude-growing briars,
Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood,
As fresh as morning dew distill'd on flowers?
A very fatal place it seems to me:
Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?

Mar.
O brother, with the dismallest object
That ever eye, with sight, made heart lament.

Aar.
Now will I fetch the King to find them here,
That he thereby may have a likely guess,

How these were they that made away his brother. [Exit Aaron.

Previous section

Next section