Thou too, my brother—spurned from thy throne, thy death-bed!
O no! I shall go down into my earth
Desolate, unbeloved!—I wound thee, sister!
Pardon! I rave—I rave—
Elizabeth. Abate this passion!
In very truth I love you—fondly pity—
Mary. Pity! not pity—give me love or nothing.
I hope not happiness: I kneel for peace.
But no: this crown traitors would rive from me—
Which our great father Harry hath bequeathed