Boy. Good grandsire leaue these bitter deepe laments,
Make my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale
Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,
Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse
An. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,
And teares will quickly melt thy life away.
Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.