friendless infants from oppression.
Saints shall assist thee with prevailing prayers,
And warring angels combat on thy side.

_Glos._ You're passing rich in this same heav'nly speech,
And spend it at your pleasure. Nay, but mark me!
My favour is not bought with words like these.
Go to--you'll teach your tongue another tale.

_Jane S._ No, though the royal Edward has undone me,
He was my king, my gracious master, still;
He lov'd me too, though 'twas a guilty flame;
And can I--O my heart abhors the thought!
Stand by, and see his children robb'd of right?

_Glos._ Dare not, ev'n for thy soul, to thwart me further!
None of your arts, your feigning, and your foolery;
Your dainty squeamish coying it to me;
Go--to your lord, your paramour, be gone!
Lisp in his ear, hang wanton on his neck,
And play your monkey gambols o'er to him.
You know my purpose, look that you pursue it,
And make him yield obedience to my will.
Do it--or woe upon the harlot's head.

_Jane S._ Oh that my tongue had every grace of speech,
Great and commanding, as the breath of kings;
That I had art and eloquence divine,
To pay my duty to my master's ashes,
And plead, till death, the cause of injur'd innocence.

_Glos._ Ha! Dost thou brave me, minion! Dost thou know
How vile, how very a wretch, my pow'r can make thee?
That I can place thee in such abject state,
As help shall never find thee; where, repining,
Thou shall sit down, and gnaw the earth for anguish;
Groan to the pitiless winds without return;
Howl, like the midnight wolf amidst the desert,
And curse thy life, in bitterness and misery!

_Jane S._ Let me be branded for the public scorn,
Turn'd forth and driv'n to wander like a vagabond,
Be friendless and forsaken, seek my bread
Upon the barren wild and desolate waste,
Feed on my sighs, and drink my falling tears,
E'er I consent to teach my lips injustice,
Or wrong the orphan, who has none to save him.

_Glos._ 'Tis well--we'll try the temper of your heart.
What, hoa! Who waits without?

_Enter Ratcliffe, Catesby, and Attendants._

_Glos._ Go, some of you, and turn this strumpet forth!
Spurn her into the street; there let her perish,
And rot upon a dunghill. Through the city
See it proclaim'd, that none, on pain of death,
Presume to give her comfort, food, or harbour;
Who ministers the smallest comfort, dies.
Her house, her costly furniture and wealth,
We seize on, for the profit of the state.
Away! Be gone!

_Jane S._ Oh, t