did urge it still unto the king! God will revenge it. But come, let us in, To comfort Edward with our company. We wait upon your grace. Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead? No, boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast, And cry 'O Clarence, my unhappy son!' Why do you look on us, and shake your head, And call us wretches, orphans, castaways If that our noble father be alive? My pretty cousins, you mistake me much; I do lament the sickness of the king. As loath to lose him, not your father's death; It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. The king my uncle is to blame for this: God will revenge it; whom I will importune With daily prayers all to that effect. And so will I. Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well: Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caused your father's death. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester Told me, the king, provoked by the queen, Devised impeachments to imprison him : And when my uncle told me so, he wept, And hugg'd me in his arm, and kindly kiss'd my cheek; Bade me rely on him as on my father, And he would love me dearly as his child. Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes, And with a virtuous vizard hide foul guile! He is my son; yea, and therein my shame; Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam? Ay, boy. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this? Oh, 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. What means this scene of rude impatience? To make an act of tragic violence: Edward, my lord, your son, our king, is dead. Why grow the branches now the root is wither'd? Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone? 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. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow As I had title in thy noble husband! I have bewept a worthy husband's death, And lived by looking on his images: But now two mirrors of his princely semblance Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death