SOMERSET.
Well, well, come on, who else?
LAWYER.
Unless my study and my books be false,
[To Somerset.]
The argument you held was wrong in law;
In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.
PLANTAGENET.
Now, Somerset, where is your argument?
SOMERSET.
Here in my scabbard, meditating that
Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.
PLANTAGENET.
Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;
For pale they look with fear, as witnessing
The truth on our side.
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?