That droops his sapless branches to the ground:
Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb,
Unable to support this lump of clay,
15 Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,
[♦] As witting I no other comfort have.
But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?
[♦] First Gaol. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:
[♦] We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber;
20 And answer was return’d that he will come.
[♦] Mor. Enough: my soul shall then be satisfied.