With this hard speech, our mother in affright, Round set with doubts, not knowing when or where, She safely might conuey me from their sight: In silence stands, her lookes bewrayes pale feare, Which she would vtter, yet doth oft forbeare, Till taking me by th’hand, sighes forcing teares, And teares sad words, no longer she forbeares. 37. “Behold,” said she, “I to your trust commit This noble impe, whom with the prince his brother, When in the generall iudgement God shall sit, I at your hands will aske: feare with the mother, What may betide him taken to another: I make no doubt, but ye will faithfull be, Yet others may deceiue both you and me. 38. Heere I resigne:” and at that word she paus’d, As loth so soone to part with such a thing: Then with a sigh, to shew that griefe had caus’d That silent pause, “to you,” quoth she, “I bring This royall issue of a late dead king: Yours be the charge, vnto the child proue true:” Which said, she thus gaue me my last adew. 39. “Farewell my little sonne, God be thy aid:” With that she turn’d about, and wept for woe: Then being about to part, she turn’d and said, “Kisse me my sonne, kisse me before thou go, When we shall kisse againe, our God doth know:” We kist, she sigh’d, I wept and did refuse So to depart from her; but could not chuse. 40. Leauing the queene, I absent, to deplore me, For that I was an infant then in yeares, To the Star-chamber in their armes they bore me, Where our false vncle to delude the peeres, My pensiuenesse with words of comfort cheeres: “Now welcome from my heart, my lord,” quoth he, Then tooke me in his armes and kissed me. 41. Thence brother vnto you I was conuey’d Then in that place, where London’s prelats dwell, Whence like two lambes vnto a wolfe betrai’d, We to the Tower were led: where what befell, Since it concernes you most, you best can tell: Be it your turne, our sorrowes to deplore, For I, alas, for sighes can say no more. _Edward._ If I must tell the horror of that night, In which by death our soules were set on wing, Let sorrow lend vs her sad pen t’indite In lines of woe, what I to light shall bring, And teach our muse so ruthfully to sing, That the sad reader’s ruthfull eyes may drop, Teares at each point, to teach him where to stop. 43.