To question of his apprehension.
[♦] Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably. [Exeunt all but Gloucester.
[♦] Glou. Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
125 Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for!
And yet, between my soul’s desire and me—
The lustful Edward’s title buried—
130 Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies,