O uncle, would some part of my young years

Plantagenet
O uncle, would some part of my young years
Might but redeem the passage of your age.
Mortimer
Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth
Which giveth many wounds when one will kill.
Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;
Only give order for my funeral.
And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes,
And prosperous be thy life in peace and war.
Dies.

And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul.
In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage,
And like a hermit overpassed thy days

Plantagenet
And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul.
In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage,
And like a hermit overpassed thy days.—
Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast,
And what I do imagine, let that rest.—
Keepers, convey him hence, and I myself
Will see his burial better than his life.
Jailers exit carrying Mortimer’s body.
Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,
Choked with ambition of the meaner sort.
And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries,
Which Somerset hath offered to my house,
I doubt not but with honor to redress.
And therefore haste I to the Parliament,
Either to be restorèd to my blood,
Or make mine ill  th’ advantage of my good.
He exits.