Wouldst haue me weepe? why so thou hast thy wish,
[♦] For raging windes blowes vp a storme of teares,
[180] And when the rage alaies the raine begins.
These teares are my sweet Rutlands obsequies,
And euerie drop begs vengeance as it fals,
[♦] On thee fell Clifford, and the false French woman.
North. Beshrew me but his passions moue me so,
[185] As hardlie can I checke mine eies from teares.
York. That face of his the hungrie Cannibals
Could not haue tucht, would not haue staind with bloud