Duch. Sweet York, be patient. [Kneels.]
Hear me, gentle liege.
Boling. Rise up, good aunt.
Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech. 92
For ever will I walk upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. 96
York. Against them both my true joints bended be. [Kneels.]
Ill mayst thou thrive if thou grant any grace!
Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face; 100
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:
He prays but faintly and would be denied;
We pray with heart and soul and all beside: 104
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;
Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. 108
Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have
That mercy which true prayer ought to have.
Boling. Good aunt, stand up.
Duch. Nay, do not say 'stand up';
Say 'pardon' first, and afterwards 'stand up.' 112
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
'Pardon' should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now;
Say 'pardon,' king; let pity teach thee how: 116
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like 'pardon,' for kings' mouths so meet.
99 grace: mercy
118 meet: fitting
