Let dying Mortimer here rest himself.
[♦] Even like a man new haled from the rack,
So fare my limbs with long imprisonment;
5 And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death,
[♦] Nestor-like aged in an age of care,
Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.
These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,
Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent;
10 Weak shoulders, overborne with burthening grief,
[♦] And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine