That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. Plan. Since you are tongue-ty'd, and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts: Let him, that is a true-born gentleman, And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. Som. Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. War. I love no colours; and, without all colour Of base insinuating flattery, I pluck this white rose, with Plantagenet. Suf. I pluck this red rose, with young Somerset; And say withal, I think he held the right. Ver. Stay, lords, and gentlemen; and pluck no more, Till you conclude-that he, upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree, Shall yield the other in the right opinion. Som. Good master Vernon, it is well objected; If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. Plan. And I. Ver. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale, and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. Som. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off; Ver. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Som. Well, well, come on: Who else? Law. Unless my study and my books be false, The argument you held, was wrong in you; [To SOMERSET. In sign whereof, I pluck a white rose too. Plan. Mean time, your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side. Som. No, Plantagenet, 'Tis not for fear; but anger,-that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame, to counterfeit our roses; And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. Plan. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? Som. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? Plan. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. Som. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. Suf. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. Plan. Proud Poole, I will; and scorn both him and thee. Suf. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat. Som. Away, away, good William De-la-Poole! We grace the yeoman, by conversing with him. War. Now, by God's will, thou wrongst him, Somerset ; His grandfather was Lionel, duke of Clarence, Plan. He bears him on the place's privilege, Som. By him that made me, I'll maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom : Was not thy father, Richard, earl of Cambridge, Plan. My father was attached, not attainted; Som. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still: Or flourish to the height of my degree. Suf. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition! And so farewell, until I meet thee next. 1 [Exit, Som. Have with thee, Poole.-Farewell, ambitious Richard. [Exit. Plan. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it! War. This blot, that they object against your house, Shall be wip'd out in the next parliament, Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloster: And, if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Plan. Good master Vernon, I am bound to you, Ver. In your Plan. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say, This quarrel will drink blood another day. [Exeunt. A Room in the Tower. Enter MORTIMER, brought in a Chair by Two Keepers. Mor. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Nestor-like aged, in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes-like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,- Weak shoulders, overborne with burd'ning grief; That droops his sapless branches to the ground:- 1 Keep. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come: We sent unto the Temple, to his chamber; And answer was return'd, that he will come. Mor. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied.- But now, the arbitrator of despairs, Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries, That so he might recover what was lost. Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET. 1 Keep. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend? Is he come? Plan. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd, Your nephew, late-despised Richard, comes. |