YORK              Ill may thou thrive if thou grant any grace.

DUCHESS       Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face:

His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest,

His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast.

He prays but faintly and would be denied,

We pray with heart and soul and all beside.

His weary joints would gladly rise I know,

Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow.

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy,

Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.

Our prayers do out-pray his, then let them have

That mercy which true prayer ought to have.        (5.3.98-109)

The rhyming couplets continue: York’s line here is a perverse near-curse directed at Bolingbroke, telling him that if he shows mercy to Aumerle, grants any grace, then ill may he thrive, York hopes he will have bad luck thereafter. But the Duchess has now got into her stride, and responds with brilliant, scornful drama to the utterly absurd situation, as she, her husband, and their son all kneel before the King. It’s her show, she has the floor (quite literally) and it’s her husband at whom her ire is directed. He’s just putting it on, she says, he’s just acting. He’s not pleading in earnest, for real, just look at him, dry-eyed. He’s just making noises, he doesn’t mean any of it: his words come from his mouth, but ours—hers and Aumerle’s—from our breast; we really really mean what we say, we speak from the heart. His prayers are half-hearted, and in fact he doesn’t mean them at all, his heart’s not in it (and they’re going to be denied, go unheard, fail, too); we pray fervently, with heart and soul and all beside, everything, every fibre of our being. And this kneeling business? He’s just putting it on. Really, he wants to get up, with his weary joints, dodgy knee, stupid old bloke—but our knees, faithful and true, will kneel till to the ground they grow. We’re not going anywhere, we can keep this up for ages. (We have the stamina, and also the core stability.) His prayers are fake, and he’s a hypocrite; our prayers are full of zeal and deep integrity. We’re the real thing! Our prayers are BETTER! Admit it! And they do out-pray his—and so you’re going to let them have that mercy which true prayer ought to have. You’re going to give us—that is, me, on Aumerle’s behalf (Aumerle having seemingly retreated once more into appalled, anguished silence, he doesn’t say another word in the scene) what we’re asking for, aren’t you?