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O unhappy girl
With the Moor, says’t thou?
How dids’t thou know ‘twas she?
O she decieves me
I may command at most.
Get weapons, ho!
By which the property of youth and maidenhood
may be abus’d
thou hast
enchanted her
If she in chains of magic
were not bound
foul charms…
with drugs or minerals
So did I yours.
Good your grace, pardon me:
My daughter!
O, my daughter!
she is abus’d, stol’n from me,
and corrupted
of years, of country,
credit, everything
to find out practices of
cunning hell
That with some mixtures
powerful o’er the blood
I am glad at soul I
have no other child