SOMERSET.
No, Plantagenet,
’Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks
Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses,
And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.
PLANTAGENET.
Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?
SOMERSET.
Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?
PLANTAGENET.
Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;
Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.
SOMERSET.
Well, I’ll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,
That shall maintain what I have said is true,
Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.
PLANTAGENET.
Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,
I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy.
SUFFOLK.
Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.
PLANTAGENET.
Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee.
SUFFOLK.
I’ll turn my part thereof into thy throat.
SOMERSET.
Away, away, good William de la Pole!
We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.