Boy. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?
Duch. Ay, boy.
[♦] Boy. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?
Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, with her hair about her ears; RIVERS and DORSET after her.
[♦] Q. Eliz. Oh, who shall hinder me to wail and weep,
35 To chide my fortune and torment myself?
[♦] I’ll join with black despair against my soul,
[♦] And to myself become an enemy.
Duch. What means this scene of rude impatience?
Q. Eliz. To make an act of tragic violence: