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ANNE. Set down, set down your honourable loadIf honour may be shrouded in a hearse;Whilst I awhile obsequiously lamentTh' untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghostTo hear the lamentations of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son, Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these wounds.Lo, in these windows that let forth thy lifeI pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.O, cursed be the hand that made these holes!Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it!Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!More direful hap betide that hated wretchThat makes us wretched by the death of theeThan I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!If ever he have child, abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and unnatural aspectMay fright the hopeful mother at the view, And that be heir to his unhappiness!If ever he have wife, let her be madeMore miserable by the death of himThan I am made by my young lord and thee!Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul's to be interred

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