Plays harlot to the hour. Lo, thistles burgeon
Even through the Red Rose’ cradle!
Northumberland. My good lord,
Unseasonable wit hath a warped edge,
Whereby the unskilful take unlooked for scars.
Good-night. May fancy tickle you in dreams
In which nor Boleyn’s babe (I quote your phrase)
Nor whelp of Arragon—kind heaven forefend!—
Nor our grim friend here, with uncivil axe,
Dare mingle. Good-night, Courtenaye.”