Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd.

BUSHY.
Despair not, madam.

QUEEN.
Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper-back of death,
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.

[Enter YORK.]

GREEN.
Here comes the Duke of York.

QUEEN.
With signs of war about his aged neck:
O! full of careful business are his looks.
Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words.

YORK.
Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:
Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.
Your husband, he is gone to save far off,