York.
Pardon me, noble Gloucester; when I say,
Your Tenderness, for this weak Prince, prevails
Too far.—

Gloucest.
Alas, my Lords, his weak, unactive Spirit
(Since you will search my Soul, to know the Cause)
Makes me more tender of a helpless King,
To Me bequeath'd.—How, are my Hopes deceiv'd!
  When this sole Orphan of my royal Brother
(Scarce, yet, from Infancy advanced to Childhood)
Smil'd at the Transports of the applauding Crowd,
As on the trapped Steed, that wont to bear
His Father's Manhood, Cherub-like He rode
To meet his Parliament;—Oh, what Blessings
Did every, Age, and Sex, and every Rank,
From Windows and high Battlements, shower down
On godlike Henry's Son!—How did My Joy
(Flooding my Eyes, and conspiring with the People)
Prognosticate, and promise to the Nation,
The Wisdom, Justice, Prowess, of my Brother,
Should spring afresh, and flourish, in his Heir!

York.
While You survive; and will exert your just
Authority: The Nation bears the Disappointment.

Salisb.
Nor, will they endure it, long, on other Terms.

Gloucest.
To each of You, kind Heaven has granted Sons,
Born to prolong your Vertues!—Wherefore, was that
Felicity deny'd to Henry's Memory?—
Or, must One Generation pass; or, more;

Ere Providence determines to renew
His Likeness; and distinguish, once again,
The Blood of Lancaster, and England's Glory!

Salisb.
Why was the Education of our Prince intrusted
To Beaufort? With whom, the Metropolitan
Of York conspir'd, to enfeeble his tender Mind
With Legendary Tales, and false Devotion;
That They might rule him, in his riper Years.

York.
When Superstition (Bane of manly Vertues!)
Strikes Root within the Soul; it over-runs,
And kills, the Power of Reason.

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