BEATRICE: 
What is it that you say?  I was just thinking
’Twere better not to struggle any more. 
Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody, 55
Yet never—­Oh!  Before worse comes of it
’Twere wise to die:  it ends in that at last.

LUCRETIA: 
Oh, talk not so, dear child!  Tell me at once
What did your father do or say to you? 
He stayed not after that accursed feast 60
One moment in your chamber.—­Speak to me.

BERNARDO: 
Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us!

BEATRICE [SPEAKING VERY SLOWLY, WITH A FORCED CALMNESS]: 
It was one word, Mother, one little word;
One look, one smile.
[WILDLY.]
Oh!  He has trampled me
Under his feet, and made the blood stream down 65
My pallid cheeks.  And he has given us all
Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh
Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve,
And we have eaten.—­He has made me look
On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust 70
Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs,
And I have never yet despaired—­but now! 
What could I say?
[RECOVERING HERSELF.]
Ah, no! ’tis nothing new. 
The sufferings we all share have made me wild: 
He only struck and cursed me as he passed; 75
He said, he looked, he did;—­nothing at all
Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. 
Alas!  I am forgetful of my duty,
I should preserve my senses for your sake.

LUCRETIA: 
Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my sweet girl. 80
If any one despairs it should be I
Who loved him once, and now must live with him
Till God in pity call for him or me. 
For you may, like your sister, find some husband,
And smile, years hence, with children round your knees; 85
Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil
Shall be remembered only as a dream.

BEATRICE: 
Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband. 
Did you not nurse me when my mother died? 
Did you not shield me and that dearest boy? 90
And had we any other friend but you
In infancy, with gentle words and looks,
To win our father not to murder us? 
And shall I now desert you?  May the ghost
Of my dead Mother plead against my soul 95
If I abandon her who filled the place
She left, with more, even, than a mother’s love!

BERNARDO: 
And I am of my sister’s mind.  Indeed
I would not leave you in this wretchedness,
Even though the Pope should make me free to live 100
In some blithe place, like others of my age,
With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air. 
Oh, never think that I will leave you, Mother!

LUCRETIA: 
My dear, dear children!