England. Before the King’s palace.
Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there Weep our sad bosoms empty.
Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom: each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland and yell’d out Like syllable of dolour.
What I believe I’ll wail, What know believe, and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well: He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb To appease an angry god.