SEYTON, and SOLDIERS, with drum and
Hang out our banners on the outward walls.
The cry is still “They come!” Our
Will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up.
5Were they not forced with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home.
A cry within of women
It is the cry of women, my good lord.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
10The time has been my senses would have cooled
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in ’t. I have supped full with horrors.
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts
15Cannot once start me.
The queen, my lord, is dead.