[♦] Boy. Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead?
Duch. No, boy.
[♦] Boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,
And cry ‘O Clarence, my unhappy son’?
[5] Girl. Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
[♦] And call us wretches, orphans, castaways,
[♦] If that our noble father be alive?
[♦] Duch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me much.
I do lament the sickness of the king,
[10] As loath to lose him; not your father’s death;