[♦] I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
[75] Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest! [Clarence sleeps.
[♦] Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning and the noon-tide night.
[♦] Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
[80] And, for unfelt imagination,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
[♦] So that, betwixt their titles and low names,