[♦] I would to God all strifes were well compounded.
[75] My sovereign liege, I do beseech your majesty
To take our brother Clarence to your grace.
Glou. Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this,
[♦] To be so flouted in this royal presence?
[♦] Who knows not that the noble duke is dead? [They all start.
80 You do him injury to scorn his corse.
[♦] Riv. Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is?
Q. Eliz. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!
Buck. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?