Marke silent King, the Morall of this sport,
How soone my Sorrow hath destroy'd my Face
Bull. The shadow of your Sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow of your Face
Rich. Say that againe.
The shadow of my Sorrow: ha, let's see,
'Tis very true, my Griefe lyes all within,
And these externall manner of Laments,
Are meerely shadowes, to the vnseene Griefe,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd Soule.
There lyes the substance: and I thanke thee King
For thy great bountie, that not onely giu'st
Me cause to wayle, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. Ile begge one Boone,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtaine it?
Bull. Name it, faire Cousin
Rich. Faire Cousin? I am greater then a King:
For when I was a King, my flatterers
Were then but subiects; being now a subiect,
I haue a King here to my flatterer:
Being so great, I haue no neede to begge
Bull. Yet aske
Rich. And shall I haue?
Bull. You shall
Rich. Then giue me leaue to goe
Bull. Whither?
Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your sights
Bull. Goe some of you, conuey him to the Tower
Rich. Oh good: conuey: Conueyers are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true Kings fall
Bull. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set downe
Our Coronation: Lords, prepare your selues.
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