no pain they can inflict upon him
Will make him say I moved him to those arms.
Say that he thrive, as 'tis great like he will,
Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength
And reap the harvest which that rascal sow'd;
For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,
And Henry put apart, the next for me.
Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know
We have dispatch'd the duke, as he commanded.
O that it were to do! What have we done?
Didst ever hear a man so penitent?
Here comes my lord.
Now, sirs, have you dispatch'd this thing?
Ay, my good lord, he's dead.
Why, that's well said. Go, get you to my house;
I will reward you for this venturous deed.
The king and all the peers are here at hand.
Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well,
According as I gave directions?
'Tis, my good lord.
Away! be gone.
Go, call our uncle to our presence straight;
Say we intend to try his grace to-day.
If he be guilty, as 'tis published.
I'll call him presently, my noble lord.
Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,
Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester
Than from true evidence of good esteem
He be approved in practise culpable.
God forbid any malice should prevail,
That faultless may condemn a nobleman!
Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion!
I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much.
How now! why look'st thou pale? why tremblest thou?
Where is our uncle? what's the matter, Suffolk?
Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead.
Marry, God forfend!
God's secret judgment: I did dream to-night
The duke was dumb and could not speak a word.
How fares my lord? Help, lords! the king is dead.
Rear up his body; wring him by the nose.
Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes!
He doth revive again: madam, be patient.
O heavenly God!
How fares my gracious lord?
Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, comfort!
What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?
Came he right now to sing a raven's note,
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers;
And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,
By crying comfort from a hollow breast,
Can chase away the first-conceived sound?
Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words;
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say;
Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting.
Thou baleful messenger, out of my