I have a kind soul that would give you thanks
And knows not how to do it but with tears.

At Worcester must his body be interr'd;
For so he will'd it.

Even so must I run on, and even so stop.
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this was now a king, and now is clay?

O that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!

How fares your majesty?

O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes
In their continuance will not feel themselves.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now
Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies,
Which, in their throng and press ...

Let him be brought into the orchard here.
Doth he still rage?

It is too late: the life of all his blood
Is touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain,
Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,
Doth by the idle comments that it makes
Foretell the ending of mortality.