Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower
Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart.
York. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left?
Som. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out,
110 Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it.
K. Hen. Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men,
When for so slight and frivolous a cause
[♦] Such factious emulations shall arise!
Good cousins both, of York and Somerset,
[115] Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace.