Queene. God forbid any Malice should preuayle,
That faultlesse may condemne a Noble man:
Pray God he may acquit him of suspition
King. I thanke thee Nell, these wordes content mee
much.
Enter Suffolke.
How now? why look'st thou pale? why tremblest thou?
Where is our Vnckle? what's the matter, Suffolke?
Suff. Dead in his Bed, my Lord: Gloster is dead
Queene. Marry God forfend
Card. Gods secret Iudgement: I did dreame to Night,
The Duke was dumbe, and could not speake a word.
King sounds.
Qu. How fares my Lord? Helpe Lords, the King is dead
Som. Rere vp his Body, wring him by the Nose
Qu. Runne, goe, helpe, helpe: Oh Henry ope thine eyes
Suff. He doth reuiue againe, Madame be patient