Boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,
And cry 'O Clarence, my unhappy son!'
Girl. Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
And call us wretches, orphans, castaways
If that our noble father be alive?
Boy. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead.
The king my uncle is to blame for this:
God will revenge it; whom I will importune
With daily prayers all to that effect.
Girl. And so will I.
Boy. Good aunt, you wept not for our father's death;
How can we aid you with our kindred tears?
Girl. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd;
Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept!