Page 2951 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1
P. 2951
Y ORK
Give me my boots, I say!
DUCHESS
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? Or are we like to have? [90]
Is not my teeming-date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age?
And rob me of a happy mother’s name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?
Y ORK
Thou fond, mad woman, [95]
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the Sacrament
And interchangeably set down their hands
To kill the King at Oxford.
DUCHESS
He shall be none,
We’ll keep him here. Then what is that to him? [100]
Y ORK
Away, fond woman. Were he twenty times my son
I would appeach him.
DUCHESS
Hadst thou groan’d for him
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind. Thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed, [105]
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
He is as like thee as a man may be;
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
Y ORK
Make way, unruly woman. [110]
