Duch. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?
Aum. Good mother, have content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
Duch. Thy life answer!
York. Bring me my boots; I will unto the King.
Reënter Servant with boots
Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz’d.
—Hence villain! never more come in my sight.
York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? Or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother’s name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond mad woman.
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the King at Oxford.