To babble of our plot, and ’fore the folk
Will, with his pretty face and cunning tears
And speeches of his mother, stir them up
To rise against us. Look, sirs, while he lives
We can do nothing, but if we should kill him,
His lands and goods are ours: we may divide
The wealth and let who will possess the widow.
That is my counsel, lords: but if ye suffer
This baby to return, then this I say—
Make we at once our gifts,—myself I count it