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And cry "O Clarence, my unhappy son!" To think it should leave crying, and say 'Ay:' And twenty times made pause, to sob and weep, Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. We cannot without circumstance descry. I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she: And make poor England weep in streams of blood! Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth, Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I'll cry a match. Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; Ay, millstones; as he lesson'd us to weep.