Plan. Now, Somerset, where is your argument?
60 Som. Here in my scabbard, meditating that
[♦] Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.
[♦] Plan. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;
For pale they look with fear, as witnessing
The truth on our side.
Som. No, Plantagenet,
[65] ’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.