And if thine eies can water for his death,
I giue thee this to drie thy cheeks withall.
120 Alas poore Yorke? But that I hate thee much,
[♦] I should lament thy miserable state?
[♦] I prethee greeue to make me merrie Yorke?
Stamp, raue and fret, that I maie sing and dance.
[♦] What? hath thy fierie hart so parcht thine entrailes,
125 That not a teare can fall for Rutlands death?
Thou wouldst be feede I see to make me sport.
Yorke cannot speake, vnlesse he weare a crowne.