Here, take the crowne, and with the crowne my curse,
And in thy need such comfort come to thee,
[200] As now I reape at thy two cruell hands.
[♦] Hard-harted Clifford, take me from the world,
My soule to heauen, my bloud vpon your heads.
North. Had he bin slaughterman of all my kin,
I could not chuse but weepe with him to see,
[205] How inlie anger gripes his hart.
Quee. What weeping ripe, my Lorde Northumberland?
Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all,