Enter the old DUCHESS of York, with the two children of Clarence
Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?
Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast,
And cry, “O Clarence, my unhappy son?”
5Why do you look on us and shake your head,
And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,
If that our noble father were alive?
My pretty cousins, you mistake me both.
I do lament the sickness of the king,
10As loath to lose him, not your father’s death.
It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost.
Then, you conclude, my grandam, he is dead.
The king mine uncle is to blame for it.
God will revenge it, whom I will importune
15With earnest prayers, all to that effect.
Peace, children, peace. The king doth love you well.
Incapable and shallow innocents,
You cannot guess who caused your father’s death.