PLANTAGENET.
How I am braved and must perforce endure it!
WARWICK.
This blot that they object against your house
Shall be wiped out in the next parliament
Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;
And if thou be not then created York,
I will not live to be accounted Warwick.
Meantime, in signal of my love to thee,
Against proud Somerset and William Pole,
Will I upon thy party wear this rose.
And here I prophesy: this brawl today,
Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden,
Shall send between the Red Rose and the White
A thousand souls to death and deadly night.
PLANTAGENET.
Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you,
That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.
VERNON.
In your behalf still will I wear the same.
LAWYER.
And so will I.
PLANTAGENET.
Thanks, gentlemen.
Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say
This quarrel will drink blood another day.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. The Tower of London.
Enter Mortimer, brought in a chair, and Jailers.
MORTIMER.
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 gray 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 burdening 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?