War. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke
Hath banish’d moody discontented fury,
[♦] As by his smoothed brows it doth appear:
125 Why look you still so stern and tragical?
Glou. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.
King. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach
That malice was a great and grievous sin;
[♦] And will not you maintain the thing you teach,
130 But prove a chief offender in the same?
[♦] War. Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird.