How you did meddle with such dangerous giftes.

QUEENE MARGARET. Too late it is my Lord if that be true
To blame her highnes, but I hope it be
Only some naturall passion makes her sicke.

OLD QUEENE. O no, sweet Margaret, the fatall poyson
Doth work within my heart, my brain pan breakes,
My heart doth faint, I dye.

She dyes.

NAVARRE. My Mother poysoned heere before my face:
O gracious God, what times are these?
O graunt sweet God my daies may end with hers,
That I with her may dye and live againe.

QUEENE MARGARET. Let not this heavy chaunce my dearest Lord,
(For whose effects my soule is massacred)
Infect thy gracious brest with fresh supply,
To agravate our sodaine miserie.

ADMIRALL. Come my Lords let us beare her body hence,
And see it honoured with just solemnitie.

As they are going, [enter] the Souldier [above, who] dischargeth
his musket at the Lord Admirall [and exit].

CONDY. What are you hurt my Lord high Admiral?