Guio. You are deceiv’d Sir,
You come besotted, to your own destruction: 
I sent not for you; what honour can ye add to me,
That brake that staff of honour, my age lean’d on? 
That rob’d me of that right, made me a Mother? 
Hear me thou wretched man, hear me with terrour,
And let thine own bold folly shake thy Soul,
Hear me pronounce thy death, that now hangs o’re thee,
Thou desperate fool; who bad thee seek this ruine? 
What mad unmanly fate, made thee discover
Thy cursed face to me again? was’t not enough
To have the fair protection of my house,
When misery and justice close pursued thee? 
When thine own bloudy sword, cryed out against thee,
Hatcht in the life of him? yet I forgave thee. 
My hospitable word, even when I saw
The goodliest branch of all my blood lopt from me,
Did I not seal still to thee?

Rut. I am gone.

Guio. And when thou went’st, to Imp thy miserie,
Did I not give thee means? but hark ungratefull,
Was it not thus? to hide thy face and fly me? 
To keep thy name for ever from my memory? 
Thy cursed blood and kindred? did I not swear then,
If ever, (in this wretched life thou hast left me,
Short and unfortunate,) I saw thee again,
Or came but to the knowledge, where thou wandredst,
To call my vow back, and pursue with vengeance
With all the miseries a Mother suffers?

Rut. I was born to be hang’d, there’s no avoiding it.

Guio. And dar’st thou with this impudence appear here?  Walk like the winding sheet my Son was put in, Stand with those wounds?

Dua. I am happy now again; Happy the hour I fell, to find a Mother, So pious, good, and excellent in sorrows.

Enter a Servant.

Ser. The Governour’s come in.

Guio. O let him enter.

Rut. I have fool’d my self a fair thred of all my fortunes, This strikes me most; not that I fear to perish, But that this unmannerly boldness has brought me to it.

Enter Governour, Clodio, Charino.

Gov. Are these fit preparations for a wedding Lady?  I came prepar’d a guest.

Guio. O give me justice; As ever you will leave a vertuous name, Do justice, justice, Sir.

Gove. You need not ask it, I am bound to it.

Guio. Justice upon this man That kill’d my Son.

Gove. Do you confess the act?

Rut. Yes Sir.

Clod. Rutilio?

Char. ’Tis the same.

Clod. How fell he thus?  Here will be sorrow for the good Arnoldo.

Gove. Take heed Sir what you say.