But why mourne I for him, whilst thou art here?
195 Sweete Suffolke hie thee hence to France,
For if the King do come, thou sure must die.
Suff. And if I go I cannot liue: but here to die,
[♦] What were it else, but like a pleasant slumber
In thy lap?
[200] Here could I, could I, breath my soule into the aire,
As milde and gentle as the new borne babe,
That dies with mothers dugge betweene his lips,
[♦] Where from thy sight I should be raging madde,