King.
Away with her, her words inforce these teares,
And I shall pitty her if she speake againe.
Qu.
Shall I not moorne for my beloved Lord?
And with the rest accompany him to the Grave?
Lor.
Thus Madam, tis the Kings will you shall hence.
Qu.
He hath forgotten me, stay, I am his Mother.
Lords.
That bootes not, therefore gentle Madam goe.
Qu.
Then come sweet death, and rid me of this griefe.
Lords.
My Lord, heere is the head of Mortimer.
King.
Goe fetch my Fathers hearse, where it shall lye,
And bring my Funerall Robes. Accursed head,
Could I have rul'd thee then, as I doe now,
Thou hadst not hatcht this monstrous Trechery.
Here comes the Herse, helpe me to mourne my Lords:
Sweete Father heere, unto thy murthered Ghost,
I offer up this wicked Traytors head,
And let these teares distilling from mine eyes,
Be witnesse of my griefe and innocency.
FINIS.
