Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d with grief,
Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes;
My body round engirt with misery—
For what’s more miserable than discontent?
Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see
The map of honor, truth, and loyalty;
And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come
That e’er I prov’d thee false or fear’d thy faith.
What low’ring star now envies thy estate,
That these great lords, and Margaret our queen,
Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?
Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong;
And as the butcher takes away the calf,
And binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays,
Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house,
Even so remorseless have they borne him hence;
And as the dam runs lowing up and down,
Looking the way her harmless young one went,
And can do nought but wail her darling’s loss,
Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case
With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d eyes
Look after him, and cannot do him good,
So mighty are his vowed enemies.
His fortunes I will weep, and ’twixt each groan
Say, “Who’s a traitor, Gloucester he is none.”