[♦] Ed. What doth she swound? make meanes for Her recouerie?
Glo. Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother,
I must to London on a serious matter,
Ere you come there, you shall heare more newes.
85 Cla. About what, prethe tell me?
Glo. The Tower man, the Tower, Ile root them out. Exit Gloster.
[♦] Queen. Ah Ned, speake to thy mother boy? ah
Thou canst not speake.
Traytors, Tyrants, bloudie Homicides,
90 They that stabd Cæsar shed no bloud at all,