[40] Edward, my lord, your son, our king, is dead.
[♦] Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d?
[♦] Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone?
If you will live, lament; if die, be brief,
That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s,
45 Or, like obedient subjects, follow him
[♦] To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.
[♦] Duch. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow
[♦] As I had title in thy noble husband!
I have bewept a worthy husband’s death,