BASTARD.
Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best.
SALISBURY.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
BASTARD.
But there is little reason in your grief;
Therefore ’twere reason you had manners now.
PEMBROKE.
Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
BASTARD.
’Tis true, to hurt his master, no man’s else.
SALISBURY.
This is the prison. What is he lies here?
[Seeing Arthur.]
PEMBROKE.
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
SALISBURY.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.
BIGOT.
Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.