Poore lambs do feele the rigor of their wraths:
[♦] The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatall colours of our striuing houses,
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish,
40 For if you striue, ten thousand liues must perish.
1. Sould. How will my mother for my fathers death,
Take on with me and nere be satisfide?
[♦] 2. Sol. How will my wife for slaughter of my son,
Take on with me and nere be satisfide?
45 King. How will the people now misdeeme their king,