If yet your gentle souls fly in the air
And be not fix’d in doom perpetual,
[♦] Hover about me with your airy wings
And hear your mother’s lamentation!
[15] Q. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right for right
Hath dimm’d your infant morn to aged night.
[♦] Duch. So many miseries have crazed my voice,
[♦] That my woe-wearied tongue is mute and dumb.
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?
[20] Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet,