Thou'rt more a man.
Prince. Sooth, now, my legs ache sadly!
My heart is light and fresh though; and it mocks
My legs for aching. I would I had your legs,
And you my heart.—Your heart, I fear me, mother,
Is heavier far than mine.
Marg. Dost think so, Ned?
Prince. Ay, and I know so too:—for I am in it.
Marg. My dear, wronged child!
Prince. Pr'ythee now, mother, do not grieve for me;—