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92

Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!

Lo! ere I can repeat this curse again,

Within so small a time, my woman's heart

Grossly grew captive to his honey words,

And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse:

Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest;

For never yet one hour in his bed

Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,

But with his timorous dreams was still awak'd.

Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick,

And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Q. Eliz. Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.

Anne. No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.

Dor. Farewell! thou woeful welcomer of glory!

Anne. Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it!

''Duch. York''. [To Dorset.] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!

[To Anne.] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee!

[To Q. Elizabeth.] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee!

I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!

Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,

And each hour's joy wrack'd with a week of teen.

Q. Eliz. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower.

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes

Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls,

Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!

Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow

For tender princes, use my babies well.

So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.

Exeunt.

 85 Warwick; cf. n.

95 Eighty odd; cf. n.

96 wrack'd with: destroyed by

teen: woe 

99 envy: spite

101 ragged: rough

sullen: dismal 