We were imbarkt for Ireland, wretched we,
With awkward windes, and sore
tempests driven
To fall on shoare, and here to pine in feare
Of Mortimer and his confederates.
Edward. Mortimer,
who talkes of Mortimer,
Who wounds me with the name of Mortimer
That bloudy man? good father on thy lap
Lay I this head, laden with mickle care,
O might I never open these eyes againe,
Never againe lift up this drooping head,
O never more lift up this dying hart!
