Y. Spen. It may become thee yet To let us take our farewell of his grace.
Abbot. My heart with pity earns [298] to see this sight,70 A king to bear these words and proud commands.
Edw. Spencer, ah, sweet Spencer, thus then must we part?
Y. Spen. We must, my lord, so will the angry heavens.
Edw. Nay, so will hell and cruel Mortimer; The gentle heavens have not to do in this.
Bald. My lord, it is in vain to grieve or storm. Here humbly of your grace we take our leaves; Our lots are cast; I fear me, so is thine.
Edw. In heaven we may, in earth ne'er shall we meet: And, Leicester, say, what shall become of us?80
Leices. Your majesty must go to Killingworth.
Edw. Must! it is somewhat hard, when kings must go.
Leices. Here is a litter ready for your grace, That waits your pleasure, and the day grows old.