So fare my limbs with long imprisonment : And these grey locks, the pursuivants 1 of death, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes,-like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent: 2 Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief; Unable to support this lump of clay, 1 Keep. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come : We sent unto the Temple, to his chamber; And answer was return'd, that he will come. Mor. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied. But now, the arbitrator of despairs, 1 Pursuivants are officers attending on heralds. 2 End. Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence : Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 1 Keep. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend? Is he come? Plan. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly used, Your nephew, late-despised Richard, comes. O, tell me, when my lips do touch his cheeks, And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock, Why didst thou say—of late thou wert despised? Plan. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm; And, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease.1 Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me; 1 Uneasiness, discontent. |