Son.
Good Grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

Dutch.
No, boy.

Daugh.
Why do you weep so oft? and beat your breast?
And cry—O Clarence! my unhappy son!

Son.
Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
And call us orphans, wretches, cast-aways,
If that our noble father be alive?

Dutch.
My pretty Cousins, you mistake me both.

I do lament the sickness of the King,
As loth to lose him; not your father's death;
It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost.

Son.
Then you conclude, my Grandam, he is dead.
The King mine uncle is to blame for this.
God will revenge it, whom I will importune
With daily earnest prayers.

Daugh.
And so will I.

Dutch.
Peace, children, peace! the King doth love you well.
Incapable and shallow Innocents!
You cannot guess, who caus'd your father's death.

Son.
Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Glo'ster
Told me, the King, provok'd to't by the Queen,
Devis'd Impeachments to imprison him;
And when my uncle told me so, he wept,
And pitied me, and kindly kist my cheek,
Bade me rely on him, as on my father,
And he would love me dearly as his child.

Dutch.
Ah! that deceit should steal such gentle shape,
And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!
He is my son, ay, and therein my shame;
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Son.
Think you, my uncle did dissemble, Grandam?

Dutch.
Ay, boy.

Son.
I cannot think it. Hark, what noise is this? Enter the Queen with her hair about her ears, Rivers and Dorset after her.

Queen.
Ah! who shall hinder me to wail and weep,
To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I'll join with black despair against my soul,
And to myself become an enemy.—

Dutch.
What means this scene of rude impatience?

Queen.
To make an act of tragick violence.
Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead.
Why grow the branches, when the root is gone?

Why wither not the leaves, that want their sap?
If you will live, lament; if die, be brief;
That our swift-winged souls may catch the King's;
Or, like obedient Subjects, follow him
To his new Kingdom of perpetual rest.

Dutch.
Ah! so much int'rest have I in thy sorrow,
As I had title to thy noble husband.
I have bewept a worthy husband's death,
And liv'd by looking on ^{7 note}his images.
But now two mirrors of his Princely semblance
Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death;
And I for comfort have but one false glass,
That grieves me when I see my shame in him.
Thou art a widow, yet thou art a mother,
And hast the comfort of thy children left:
But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms,
And pluckt two crutches from my feeble hands,
Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I,
Thine being but a moiety of my grief
To over-go thy plaints, and drown thy cries.

Son.
Ah, Aunt! [To the Queen] you wept not for our father's death;
How can we aid you with our kindred Tears?

Daugh.
Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd.
Your widow dolours likewise be unwept!

Queen.
Give me no help in Lamentation,
I am not barren to bring forth complaints:
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,
That I, ^{8 note}being govern'd by the wat'ry moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world.
Ah, for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward!

Chil.
Ah, for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence!

Dutch.
Alas, for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

Queen.
What stay had I, but Edward? and he's gone.

Chil.
What stay had we, but Clarence? and he's gone.

Dutch.
What stays had I, but they? and they are gone.

Queen.
Was never widow, had so dear a loss.

Chil.
Were never orphans, had so dear a loss.

Dutch.
Was never mother, had so dear a loss.
Alas! I am the mother of these griefs,
Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general.
She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;
I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she;
These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I.
Alas! you three, on me threefold-distrest
Pour all your tears; I am your sorrow's nurse,
And I will pamper it with lamentations.

Dor.
Comfort, dear mother; God is much displeas'd,
That with unthankfulness you take his doing.
In common worldly things 'tis call'd ungrateful
With dull unwillingness to pay a debt,
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent,
Much more to be thus opposite with heaven;
For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

Riv.
Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,
Of the young Prince your son; send strait for him,
Let him be crown'd; in him your comfort lives.
Drown desp'rate sorrow in dead Edward's grave,
And plant your joys in living Edward's Throne.

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