Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Daugh. Daugh.
Daugh. Why do weepe so oft? And beate your Brest?
Daugh. And cry, O Clarence, my vnhappy Sonne.
Boy. Boy.
Boy. Why do you looke on vs and shake your head,
Boy. And call vs Orphans, Wretches, Castawayes,
Boy. If that our Noble Father were aliue?
Dut. Dut.
Dut. My pretty Cosins, you mistake me both,
Dut. I do lament the sicknesse of the King,
Dut. As loath to lose him, not your Fathers death:
Dut. It were lost sorrow to waile one that's lost.
Boy. Then you conclude, (my Grandam) he is dead:
Boy. The King mine Vnckle is too blame for it.
Boy. God will reuenge it, whom I will importune
Boy. With earnest prayers, all to that effect.
Daugh. And so will I.