Sal. The king hath dispossest himselfe of vs,
We will not lyne his thin-bestained cloake
With our pure Honors: nor attend the foote
That leaues the print of blood where ere it walkes.
Returne, and tell him so: we know the worst
Bast. What ere you thinke, good words I thinke
were best
Sal. Our greefes, and not our manners reason now
Bast. But there is little reason in your greefe.
Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now
Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his priuiledge
Bast. 'Tis true, to hurt his master, no mans else
Sal. This is the prison: What is he lyes heere?
P. Oh death, made proud with pure & princely beuty,
The earth had not a hole to hide this deede
Sal. Murther, as hating what himselfe hath done,
Doth lay it open to vrge on reuenge
Big. Or when he doom'd this Beautie to a graue,
Found it too precious Princely, for a graue
Sal. Sir Richard, what thinke you? you haue beheld,
Or haue you read, or heard, or could you thinke?
Or do you almost thinke, although you see,
That you do see? Could thought, without this obiect
Forme such another? This is the very top,
The heighth, the Crest: or Crest vnto the Crest
Of murthers Armes: This is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest Sauagery, the vildest stroke
That euer wall-ey'd wrath, or staring rage
Presented to the teares of soft remorse