Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.
Q. Mar. What! were you snarling all before I came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat,
[190] And turn you all your hatred now on me?
Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven
That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death,
[♦] Their kingdom’s loss, my woful banishment,
[♦] Could all but answer for that peevish brat?
195 Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?
Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!