ROSAMUND. I thank thee. Good Narsetes, Give him the chalice. Women slain by fire Thirst not as I to pledge thee. [_As_ ALBOVINE _is about to take the cup_, ALMACHILDES _rises and stabs him_. ALBOVINE. Thou, my boy? [_Dies_. ROSAMUND. I. But he hears not. Now, my warrior guests, I drink to the onward passage of his soul Death. Had my hand turned coward or played me false, This man that is my hand, and less than I And less than he bloodguilty, this my death Had been my husband’s: now he has left it me. [_Drinks_. How innocent are all but he and I No time is mine to tell you. Truth shall tell. I pardon thee, my husband: pardon me. [_Dies_. NARSETES. Let none make moan. This doom is none of man’s.