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DioLiu
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Test3

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Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,--
DUCHESS OF YORK:
What should you fear?
'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into
For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day.
DUKE OF YORK:
Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.
DUKE OF AUMERLE:
I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.
DUKE OF YORK:
I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.
Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!
DUCHESS OF YORK:
What is the matter, my lord?
DUKE OF YORK:
Ho! who is within there?
Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy, what treachery is here!
DUCHESS OF YORK:
Why, what is it, my lord?
DUKE OF YORK:
Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth,
I will appeach the villain.
DUCHESS OF YORK:
What is the matter?
DUKE OF YORK:
Peace, foolish woman.
DUCHESS OF YORK:
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle.
DUKE OF AUMERLE:
Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.
DUCHESS OF YORK:
Thy life answer!
DUKE OF YORK:
Bring me my boots: I will unto the king.
DUCHESS OF YORK:
Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed.
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.
DUKE OF YORK:
Give me my boots, I say.
DUCHESS OF YORK:
Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
DUKE OF YORK:
Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.
DUCHESS OF YORK:
He shall be none;
We'll keep him here: then what is that to him?
DUKE OF YORK:
Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.
DUCHESS OF YORK:
Hadst thou groan'd for him
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
DUKE OF YORK:
Make way, unruly woman!