York.
Thou Father to the King; and, to thy Countrey!
How ill are all thy Services requited?

Warw.
Well, do the People stile Thee Good; Thou, Best
Of Men!—But, what avails thy Goodness? While
Henry is beset with Priests and Sycophants;
And that imperious Margaret wrests the Scepter,
From his weak Hand, employ'd to finger Beads.

York.
Slaves that we were!—Did Suffolk merit Thanks,
For treating this unreputable Match;
By Gloucester, disapprov'd?

Warw.
Those hasty Thanks
We may recall.—But, see;—my Father seeks us.

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