Clar. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. 1. Mur. Right, as snow in harvest. Come, you deceive yourself, ’Tis he that sends us to destroy you here. Clar. It cannot be, for he bewept my fortune, And hugg’d me in his arms, and swore with sobs That he would labor my delivery. 1. Mur. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you From this earth’s thralldom to the joys of heaven.
