Plan. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?
Som. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?
70 Plan. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;
Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.
Som. Well, I’ll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,
That shall maintain what I have said is true,
Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.
75 Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,
[♦] I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy.
Suf. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.