_Edw._ O would I might! but heavens and earth conspire To make me miserable! Here receive my crown; Receive it? no, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. He of you all that most desires my blood, 100 And will be called the murderer of a king, Take it. What, are you moved? pity you me? Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, And Isabel, whose eyes, being turned to steel, Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. Yet stay, for rather than I'll look on them, Here, here! [_He gives them the crown._ Now, sweet God of heaven, Make me despise this transitory pomp, And sit for aye enthronizèd in heaven! Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, 110 Or if I live, let me forget myself.[309] _Winch._ My lord. _Edw._ Call me not lord; away--out of my sight: Ah, pardon me: grief makes me lunatic! Let not that Mortimer protect my son; More safety there is in a tiger's jaws, Than his embracements--bear this to the queen, Wet with my tears, and dried again with sighs; [_Gives a handkerchief._ If with the sight thereof she be not moved, Return it back and dip it in my blood. 120 Commend me to my son, and bid him rule Better than I. Yet how have I transgressed, Unless it be with too much clemency? _Trus._ And thus most humbly do we take our leave. [_Exeunt_ BISHOP _and_ TRUSSEL. _Edw._ Farewell; I know the next news that they bring Will be my death; and welcome shall it be; To wretched men, death is felicity. _Enter_ BERKELEY, _who gives a paper to_ LEICESTER. _Leices._ Another post! what news brings he? _Edw._ Such news as I expect--come, Berkeley, come, And tell thy message to my naked breast. 130 _Berk._ My lord, think not a thought so villainous Can harbour in a man of noble birth. To do your highness service and devoir, And save you from your foes, Berkeley would die. _Leices._ My lord, the council of[310] the queen commands That I resign my charge. _Edw._ And who must keep me now? Must you, my lord? _Berk._ I, my most gracious lord--so 'tis decreed. _Edw._ [_taking the paper._] By Mortimer, whose name is written here! Well may I rent his name that rends my heart! 140 [_Tears it._ This poor revenge has something eased my mind. So may his limbs be torn, as is this paper! Hear me, immortal Jove, and grant it too! _Berk._ Your grace must hence with me to Berkeley straight. _Edw._ Whither you will, all places are alike, And every earth is fit for burial.