I have, perhaps, fome fhallow fpirit of judgment;
But in these nice fharp quillets of the law,
Good faith, I am no wifer than a daw.

Plant. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance:
The truth appears fo naked on my fide,
That any purblind eye may find it out.

Sam. And on my fide it is fo well apparell'd, So clear, fo fhining, and fo evident,

That it fhall glimmer through a blind man's eye. Plant. Since you are tongue-ty'd, and so loth to speak,

In dumb fignificants proclaim your thoughts:
Let him, that is a true-born gentleman,
And ftands upon the honour of his birth,
If he fuppofe that I have pleaded truth,
From off this briar 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 rofe from off this thorn with me.
War. I love no colours; and, without all colour
Of base infinuating flattery,

I pluck this white rofe, with Plantagenet.

Suf. I pluck this red rofe, with young Somerfet; And fay withal, I think he held the right.

Ver. Stay, lords, and gentlemen; and pluck no

more,

"Till you conclude that he, upon whofe fide The fewest roses are crop'd from the tree, Shall yield the other in the right opinion.

Som. Good mafter Vernon, it is well objected; If I have feweft, I fubfcribe in filence.

Plant. And I.

Ver. Then, for the truth and plainnefs of the cafe, I pluck this pale and maiden bloffom here,

Giving my verdict on the white rofe fide.

Som. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off; Left, bleeding, you do paint the white rofe red, And fall on my fide fo against your will.

Ver. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be furgeon to my hurt, And keep me on the fide where ftill I am. Som. Well, well, come on: Who elfe? Lawyer. Unlefs, my ftudy and my books be falfe, The argument you held, was wrong in you;

[TO SOMERSET. In fign whereof, I pluck a white rose too. Plant. Now, Somerfet, where is your argument? Som. Here, in my fcabbard; meditating that, Shall dye your white rofe to a bloody red. Plant. Mean time, your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;

For pale they look with fear, as witnefling
The truth on our fide.

Som. No, Plantagenet,

Blush for pure fhame, to counterfeit our roses; 'Tis not for fear; but anger-that thy cheeks And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. Plant. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset Somt. Hath not thy rofe a thorn, Plantagenet? Plant. Ay, fharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;

Whiles thy confuming canker eats his falfehood. Som. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding rofess

That fhall maintain what I have faid is true,
Where falfe Plantagenet dare not be seen.
Plant. Now, by this maiden bloffom in my hand,
Í fcorn thee and thy fafhion, peevish boy.

Suf.

Suf. Turn not thy fcorns this way, Plantagenet. Plant. 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 converfing with him. War. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'ft him, Somerset ;

His grandfather was Lionel duke of Clarence, Third fon to the third Edward king of England; Spring crestless yeomen from fo deep a root?

Plant. He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durft not, for his craven heart, fay thus.

Som. By him that made me, I'll maintain my On any plot of ground in Christendom: [words Was not thy father, Richard, earl of Cambridge, For treafon executed in our late king's days? And, by his treason, standst thou not attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trefpafs yet lives guilty in thy blood; And, 'till thou be reftor'd, thou art a yeoman. Plant. My father was attached, not attainted; Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor; And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripen'd to my will. For your partaker Poole, and you yourself, I'll note you in my book of memory, To fcourge you for this apprehenfion : Look to it well; and fay you are well warn'd. Som. Ay, thou shalt find us for thee still: And know us, by these colours for thy foes; For these my friends, in fpite of thee fhall wear. Plant. And, by my foul, this pale and angry rofe, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,

As

Will I for ever, and my faction, wear;
Until it wither with me to my grave,
Or flourish to the height of my degree.

Suf. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy am bition!

And fo farewell, until I meet thee next. [Exit. Som. Have with thee, Poole.-Farewell, ambitious

Richard.

[Exit.

Plant. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it!

War. This blot, that they object against your houfe, Shall be wip'd out in the next parliament, Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Glofter: And, if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Mean time, in signal of my love to thee, Against proud Somerset, and William Poole, Will I upon the party wear this rose: And here I prophecy-This brawl to-day Grown to this faction, in the Temple-Garden, Shall fend between the red rofe and the white, A thousand fouls to death and deadly night.

Plant. Good master Vernon, I am bound to you, That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. Ver. In your behalf still will I wear the fame. Law. And fo will 1.

Plant. Thanks, gentle fir.

Come, let us four to dinner: I dare fay,
This quarrel will drink blood another day. [Exeunt.

SCENE V. A Room in the Tower.

Enter MORTIMER, brought in a Chair, and Jailors. Mor. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age,

Let

Let dying Mortimer here reft himself.—
Even like a man new-haled from the rack,
So fare my limbs with long imprisonment:
And these grey locks, the purfuivants of death,
Neftor-like aged, in an age of care,

Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.

Thefe eyes--like lamps whofe wafting oil is fpent-
Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent:

Weak fhoulders, over-borne with burth'ning grief;
And pithlefs arms, like to a wither'd vine
That droops his faplefs branches to the ground.-
Yet are these feet-whofe ftrengthless stay is numb,
Unable to fupport this lump of clay-
Swift winged with defire to get a grave,
As witting I no other comfort have.-
But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?
Keep. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:
We fent unto the Temple, to his chamber;
And anfwer was return'd, that he will come.

Mor. Enough; my foul then fhall be fatisfy’d--
Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine.
Since Henry Monmouth firft began to reign
(Before whofe glory I was great in arms)
This loathfome fequeftration have I had;
And even fince then hath Richard been obfcur'd,
Depriv'd of honour and inheritance:

But now, the arbitrator of defpairs,

Juft death, kind umpire of men's miferies,
With fweet enlargement doth difmifs me hence:
I would, his troubles, likewife were expir'd,
That fo he might recover what was loft.

Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET.

Keep. My lord, your loving nephew how is come.

Mor