It seems her love would slay me.
[Enter Margaret.
Marg. Henry!
Hen. My Queen! (They embrace.)
Gregory, O Gregory, where is thy curse?
Marg. This is our child, look up, look up, my Liege,
Thy subjects may desert thee, Heaven doth not.
Hen. Gregory, O Gregory, where is thy curse?
It seemed so heavy an hour ago that earth
And very heaven were weighted with its murk,