The sun that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy
Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea
25 Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life.
Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!
My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point
Than can my ears that tragic history.
But wherefore dost thou come? is’t for my life?
30 Glou. Think’st thou I am an executioner?
K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art:
If murdering innocents be executing,