They all start.
You do him iniurie to scorne his Coarse
King. Who knowes not he is dead?
Who knowes he is?
Qu. All-seeing heauen, what a world is this?
Buc. Looke I so pale Lord Dorset, as the rest?
Dor. I my good Lord, and no man in the presence,
But his red colour hath forsooke his cheekes
King. Is Clarence dead? The Order was reuerst
Rich. But he (poore man) by your first order dyed,
And that a winged Mercurie did beare:
Some tardie Cripple bare the Countermand,
That came too lagge to see him buried.
God grant, that some lesse Noble, and lesse Loyall,
Neerer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood,
Deserue not worse then wretched Clarence did,
And yet go currant from Suspition.
Enter Earle of Derby.
Der. A boone my Soueraigne for my seruice done
King. I prethee peace, my soule is full of sorrow
Der. I will not rise, vnlesse your Highnes heare me
King. Then say at once, what is it thou requests
Der. The forfeit (Soueraigne) of my seruants life,
Who slew to day a Riotous Gentleman,
Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolke