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20

I want my son: I pray you is he here?

He is not here.

Nay, say not so, I think he is with you. Tell him I have sat these three long hours, Counting the weary beatings of the clock, Which slowly portion'd out the promis'd time That brought him not to bless me with his sight. If he is well, why does he thus forget? And if he is not, as I fear he is not, Tell me the worst, and let me be with him To smooth his couch and raise his sickly head.

Tell her it is unseemly for a mother To runabout like a new foolish wife.

If you complain thus movingly, fair widow, We shall believe you seek a second husband In lieu of your good son; and by my truth It were a better errand.

O base of thought, as most unblest of speech! My son is not with you: it cannot be: I did him wrong to seek him in such company.