Might but redeem the passage of your age. 108
Mor. Thou dost then wrong me,—as the slaughterer doth,
Which giveth many wounds when one will kill.—
Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;
Only give order for my funeral: 112
And so farewell; and fair be all thy hopes,
And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!
Plan. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!
In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, 116
And like a hermit overpass'd thy days.
Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast;
And what I do imagine let that rest.
Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself 120
Will see his burial better than his life.
Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,
Chok'd with ambition of the meaner sort:
And, for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, 124
Which Somerset hath offer'd to my house,
I doubt not but with honour to redress;
And therefore haste I to the parliament,
Either to be restored to my blood, 128
Or make my ill the advantage of my good. Exit.
128 blood: hereditary rights
129 Cf. n.
