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How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength And cry "O Clarence, my unhappy son!" And make poor England weep in streams of blood! And cry "O Clarence, my unhappy son!" Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans: Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast, And twenty times made pause, to sob and weep, Bid Gloster think of this, and he will weep. Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter. Like Niobe, all tears;--why she, even she,-- It is the cry of women, my good lord.