And that is more then I will yeeld vnto:
I know, I am too meane to be your Queene,
And yet too good to be your Concubine
King. You cauill, Widow, I did meane my Queene
Wid. 'Twill grieue your Grace, my Sonnes should call
you Father
King. No more, then when my Daughters
Call thee Mother.
Thou art a Widow, and thou hast some Children,
And by Gods Mother, I being but a Batchelor,
Haue other-some. Why, 'tis a happy thing,
To be the Father vnto many Sonnes:
Answer no more, for thou shalt be my Queene
Rich. The Ghostly Father now hath done his Shrift
Clarence. When hee was made a Shriuer, 'twas for shift
King. Brothers, you muse what Chat wee two haue
had
Rich. The Widow likes it not, for shee lookes very
sad
King. You'ld thinke it strange, if I should marrie
her
Clarence. To who, my Lord?
King. Why Clarence, to my selfe
Rich. That would be tenne dayes wonder at the least
Clarence. That's a day longer then a Wonder lasts
Rich. By so much is the Wonder in extremes
King. Well, ieast on Brothers: I can tell you both,
Her suit is graunted for her Husbands Lands.
Enter a Noble man
Nob. My gracious Lord, Henry your Foe is taken,
And brought your Prisoner to your Pallace Gate
King. See that he be conuey'd vnto the Tower:
And goe wee Brothers to the man that tooke him,
To question of his apprehension.
Widow goe you along: Lords vse her honourable.
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