[170] I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.
[♦] Q. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
[175] Clif. Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death. [Stabbing him.
[♦] Q. Mar. And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king. [Stabbing him.
York. Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God!
[♦] My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee. [Dies.
Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York gates;