That I in all despite might rail at him,
[♦] This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood
Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.
85 War. Ay, but he’s dead: off with the traitor’s head,
[♦] And rear it in the place your father’s stands.
And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England’s royal king:
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
[90] And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen: