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When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,,
Gard. Hold thy peace: >
He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring,
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf:
The weeds, that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter.
That seem'd, in eating him, to hold him up,
Are pluck'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;
I mean, the earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
1 Serv. What, are they dead?
Gard. They are; and Bolingbroke
Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.^-Oh! what pity is it,
1 Ser. What, think you then, the king shall be depos'd?
Gard. Depress'd he is already; and depos'd, Tis doubt, he will be: Letters came last night
To a dear friend of the good duke of York's,
Queen. O, I am press'd to death,
Through want of speaking !—Thou, old Adam's like-
Card. Pardon me, madam: little joy have I,
Queen. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it? O, thou think'st To serve me last, that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast.—Come, ladies, go. To meet at London London's king in woe.—*
VOL. VI. B 11
What, was I born to this! that my sad look
I would my skill were subject to thy curse.—