To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow, Count. Why, art not thou the man? Count. Then have I substance too. I am indeed. Tal. No, no, I am but shadow of myself: Count. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet he is not here: Tal. That will I show you presently. He winds a Horn. Drums heard; then a Peal of OrdThe Gates being forced, enter Soldiers. nance. How say you, madam? are you now persuaded, These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength, Count. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse: Tal. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconstrue But only (with your patience), that we may Count. With all my heart: and think me honoured To feast so great a warrior in my house. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. LONDON. The TEMPLE GARDEN. Enter the Earls of SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another Lawyer. Plan. Great lords, and gentlemen, what means this silence? Dare no man answer in a case of trath? Suff. Within the Temple hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. Plan. Then say at once, if I maintain'd the truth; And never yet could frame my will to it; [us. Som. Judge you, my lord of Warwick, then between War. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper month; Plan. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance: Som. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, Plan. Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak, War. I love no colours; and, without all colour Of base insinuating flattery, Suff. 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 Som. Good master Vernon, it is well objected; 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; Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so against your will. Ver. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Plan. Now, Somerset, where is your argument? Shall die your white rose in a bloody red. Plan. Mean time, your cheeks do counterfeit our For pale they look with fear, as witnessing Som. No, Plantagenet, "Tis not for fear; but anger,-that thy cheeks Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. Suff. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. Plan, Proud Poole, I will; and scorn both him and Suff. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat. [thee. Som. Away, away, good William De-la-Poole! We grace the yeoman, by conversing with him. War. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him SomerHis grandfather was Lionel, duke of Clarence, [set; Third son to the third Edward, king of England; Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root? Plan. He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus. Som. By him that made me, I'll maintain my words Plan. My father was attached, not attainted; Som. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still : As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Or flourish to the height of my degree. Suff. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition! And so farewell, until I meet thee next. [Exit. [Exit. Som. Have with thee, Poole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. Plan. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it! Plan. Good master Vernon, I am bound to you, Plan. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say, SCENE V. The same. A Room in the TOWER. Enter MORTIMER, brought in a Chair by two Keepers. Mor. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself.Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment: And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged, in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes,-like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent: Weak shoulders, overborne with burd'ning grief; And pithless arms, like to a wither'd vine, That droops his sapless branches to the ground.Yet are these feet-whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay,Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have.-But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? |