12731174Boy. Tell me good Granam, is our father dead?

12741175Dut. No boy.

12751176Boy. Why doe you wring your hands, and beate your (breast,

12761177And crie, Oh Clarence my vnhappy sonne?

12771178Gerl. Why doe you looke on vs and shake your head,

12781179And call vs wretches, Orphanes, castawaies,

12791180If that our noble father be aliue?

12801181Dut. My prety Cosens, you mistake me much,

12811182I doe lament the sicknesse of the King:

12821183As loth to loose him, not your fathers death:

12831184It were lost labour, to weepe for one thats lost.

12841185Boy. Then Granam you conclude that he is dead,

12851186The King my Vnckle is too blame for this:

12861187God will reuenge it, whom I will importune

12871188With daily praiers, all to that effect.

12891189Dut. Peace children, peace, the King doth loue you wel,

12901190Incapable and shallow innocents,

12911191You cannot guesse who causde your fathers death.

12921192Boy. Granam we can: For my good Vnckle Glocester

12931193Tould me, the King prouoked by the Queene,

12941194Deuisd impeachments to imprison him:

12951195And when he tould me so, he wept,

12961196And hugd me in his arme, and kindly kist my checke,

12971197And bad me rely on him as in my father,

12981198And he would loue me dearely as his child.

12991199Dut. Oh that deceit should steale such gentle shapes,

13001200And with a vertuous visard hide foule guile:

13011201He is my sonne, yea, and therein my shame:

13021202Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

13031203Boy. Thinke you my Vnckle did dissemble Granam?

13041204Dut. I boy.

13051205Boy. I cannot thinke it, hark what noise is this. Enter the Quee.

13081206Qu. Oh who shall hinder me to waile and weepe?

13091207To chide my fortune, and torment my selfe?

13101208Ile ioine with blacke despaire against my soule,

13111209And to my selfe become an enemy.

13121210Dut. What meanes this sceane of rude impatience.

13131211Qu. To make an act of tragicke violence: