Griffith

Griffith
How does your Grace?
Katherine
O Griffith, sick to death.
My legs like loaden branches bow to th’ earth,
Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.
 She sits.
So. Now, methinks, I feel a little ease.
Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledst me,
That the great child of honor,
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Griffith
She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit down quiet,
For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience.  They sit.

Spirits of peace, where are you? Are you all gone,
And leave me here in wretchedness behind you?

 The Vision.

Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six
Personages clad in white robes,
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