[195] Queen. Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where’s your knife?
Is Beaufort term’d a kite? Where are his talons?
Suf. I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men;
But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,
That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart
200 That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge.
Say, if thou darest, proud Lord of Warwickshire,
[♦] That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death. [Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset, and others.
War. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?
[♦] Queen. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit