Busby. Madam, your majesty is much too sad: You promis'd, when you parted with the king, To lay aside life-harming heaviness,

And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Act II. Scene II.

Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Car. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Act IV. Scene I,

Gaunt. Heaven in thy good cause make thee prosperous !

Rouse up thy youthful blood; be valiant, and live.

Queen. What sport shall we devise here in these gardens,

To drive away the heavy thought of care?

Duch. What 's the matter? York. Peace, foolish woman.

Act III. Scene IV.

Act V. Scene 11.