With sorrow snares relenting passengers,
[♦] Or as the snake roll’d in a flowering bank,
With shining checker’d slough, doth sting a child
230 That for the beauty thinks it excellent.
Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I—
[♦] And yet herein I judge mine own wit good—
This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,
To rid us from the fear we have of him.
235 Car. That he should die is worthy policy;
But yet we want a colour for his death: