Queen. How fares my gracious lord?
[♦] Suf. Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, comfort!
King. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?
40 Came he right now to sing a raven’s note,
[♦] Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers;
And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,
By crying comfort from a hollow breast,
Can chase away the first-conceived sound?
45 Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d words;
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say;