APPENDIX 
I 9 I 
i st Sew. What, are they dead ? 
Gavd. They are; and Bolingbroke 
Hath seized the wasteful king. O, what pity is it, 
That he hath not so trimm’d and dress’d his land, 
As we this garden ! We at time of year 
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, 
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, 
With too much riches it confound itself: 
Had he done so to great and growing men, 
They might have lived to bear and he to taste 
Their fruits of duty : all superfluous branches 
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live: 
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown, 
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. 
III. iv. 29. 
Here did she fall a tear ; here in this place 
I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace : 
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, 
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. 
III. iv. 104. 
With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 
With mine own hands I give away my crown, 
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, 
With mine own breath release all duty’s rites, 
All pomp and majesty I do forswear. 
IV. i. 207. 
The woe’s to come ; the children yet unborn 
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn. 
IV. i. 322. 
But soft, but see, or rather do not see, 
My fair rose wither : yet look up, behold, 
That you in pity may dissolve to dew, 
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. 
V. i. 7. 
Dnek. Welcome, my son : who are the violets now 
That strew the green lap of the new come spring ? 
V. ii. 46. 
