[150] Rail on the Lord’s anointed: strike, I say! [Flourish. Alarums.
Either be patient, and entreat me fair,
[♦] Or with the clamorous report of war
[♦] Thus will I drown your exclamations.
Duch. Art thou my son?
[155] K. Rich. Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself.
[♦] Duch. Then patiently hear my impatience.
K. Rich. Madam, I have a touch of your condition,
[♦] Which cannot brook the accent of reproof.
Duch. O, let me speak!