Shakespeare's First Folio Part 351

Suff. I pluck this red Rose, with young Somerset, And say withall, I thinke he held the right

Vernon. Stay Lords and Gentlemen, and pluck no more Till you conclude, that he vpon whose side The fewest Roses are cropt from the Tree, Shall yeeld the other in the right opinion

Som. Good Master Vernon, it is well obiected: If I haue fewest, I subscribe in silence

York. And I

Vernon. Then for the truth, and plainnesse of the Case, I pluck this pale and Maiden Blossome here, Giuing my Verdict on the white Rose side

Som. p.r.i.c.k not your finger as you pluck it off, Least bleeding, you doe paint the white Rose red, And fall on my side so against your will

Vernon. If I, my Lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be Surgeon to my hurt, And keepe me on the side where still I am

Som. Well, well, come on, who else?

Lawyer. Vnlesse my Studie and my Bookes be false, The argument you held, was wrong in you; In signe whereof, I pluck a white Rose too

Yorke. Now Somerset, where is your argument?

Som. Here in my Scabbard, meditating, that Shall dye your white Rose in a b.l.o.o.d.y red

York. Meane time your cheeks do counterfeit our Roses: For pale they looke with feare, as witnessing The truth on our side

Som. No Plantagenet: Tis not for feare, but anger, that thy cheekes Blush for pure shame, to counterfeit our Roses, And yet thy tongue will not confesse thy error

Yorke. Hath not thy Rose a Canker, Somerset?

Som. Hath not thy Rose a Thorne, Plantagenet?

Yorke. I, sharpe and piercing to maintaine his truth, Whiles thy consuming Canker eates his falsehood

Som. Well, Ile find friends to weare my bleeding Roses, That shall maintaine what I haue said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seene

Yorke. Now by this Maiden Blossome in my hand, I scorne thee and thy fashion, peeuish Boy

Suff. Turne not thy scornes this way, Plantagenet

Yorke. Prowd Poole, I will, and scorne both him and thee

Suff. Ile turne my part thereof into thy throat

Som. Away, away, good William de la Poole, We grace the Yeoman, by conuersing with him

Warw. Now by G.o.ds will thou wrong'st him, Somerset: His Grandfather was Lyonel Duke of Clarence, Third Sonne to the third Edward King of England: Spring Crestlesse Yeomen from so deepe a Root?

Yorke. He beares him on the place's Priuiledge, Or durst not for his crauen heart say thus

Som. By him that made me, Ile maintaine my words On any Plot of Ground in Christendome.

Was not thy Father, Richard, Earle of Cambridge, For Treason executed in our late Kings dayes?

And by his Treason, stand'st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient Gentry?

His Trespas yet liues guiltie in thy blood, And till thou be restor'd, thou art a Yeoman

Yorke. My Father was attached, not attainted, Condemn'd to dye for Treason, but no Traytor; And that Ile proue on better men then Somerset, Were growing time once ripened to my will.

For your partaker Poole, and you your selfe, Ile note you in my Booke of Memorie, To scourge you for this apprehension: Looke to it well, and say you are well warn'd

Som. Ah, thou shalt finde vs ready for thee still: And know vs by these Colours for thy Foes, For these, my friends in spight of thee shall weare

Yorke. And by my Soule, this pale and angry Rose, As Cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for euer, and my Faction weare, Vntill it wither with me to my Graue, Or flourish to the height of my Degree

Suff. Goe forward, and be choak'd with thy ambition: And so farwell, vntill I meet thee next.

Enter.

Som. Haue with thee Poole: Farwell ambitious Richard.

Enter.

Yorke. How I am brau'd, and must perforce endure it?

Warw. This blot that they obiect against your House, Shall be whipt out in the next Parliament, Call'd for the Truce of Winchester and Gloucester: And if thou be not then created Yorke, I will not liue to be accounted Warwicke.

Meane time, in signall of my loue to thee, Against prowd Somerset, and William Poole, Will I vpon thy partie weare this Rose.

And here I prophecie: this brawle to day, Growne to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send betweene the Red-Rose and the White, A thousand Soules to Death and deadly Night

Yorke. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you, That you on my behalfe would pluck a Flower

Ver. In your behalfe still will I weare the same

Lawyer. And so will I

Yorke. Thankes gentle.

Come, let vs foure to Dinner: I dare say, This Quarrell will drinke Blood another day.

Exeunt.

Enter Mortimer, brought in a Chayre, and Iaylors.

Mort. Kind Keepers of my weake decaying Age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himselfe.

Euen like a man new haled from the Wrack, So fare my Limbes with long Imprisonment: And these gray Locks, the Pursuiuants of death, Nestor-like aged, in an Age of Care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.

These Eyes like Lampes, whose wasting Oyle is spent, Waxe dimme, as drawing to their Exigent.

Weake Shoulders, ouer-borne with burthening Griefe, And pyth-lesse Armes, like to a withered Vine, That droupes his sappe-lesse Branches to the ground.

Yet are these Feet, whose strength-lesse stay is numme, (Vnable to support this Lumpe of Clay) Swift-winged with desire to get a Graue, As witting I no other comfort haue.

But tell me, Keeper, will my Nephew come?

Keeper. Richard Plantagenet, my Lord, will come: We sent vnto the Temple, vnto his Chamber, And answer was return'd, that he will come

Mort. Enough: my Soule shall then be satisfied.

Poore Gentleman, his wrong doth equall mine.

Since Henry Monmouth first began to reigne, Before whose Glory I was great in Armes, This loathsome sequestration haue I had; And euen since then, hath Richard beene obscur'd, Depriu'd of Honor and Inheritance.

But now, the Arbitrator of Despaires, Iust Death, kinde Vmpire of mens miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismisse me hence: I would his troubles likewise were expir'd, That so he might recouer what was lost.

Enter Richard.

Keeper. My Lord, your louing Nephew now is come

Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?

Rich. I, n.o.ble Vnckle, thus ign.o.bly vs'd, Your Nephew, late despised Richard, comes

Mort. Direct mine Armes, I may embrace his Neck, And in his Bosome spend my latter gaspe.

Oh tell me when my Lippes doe touch his Cheekes, That I may kindly giue one fainting Kisse.