Warw.
Why do I find you here, my Lord?—Know you not
The Protectour's Enemies?—

Queen.
But, not his Murderers!

Warw.
One, I answer for!

Queen.
Presumptuous Warwick!
More insolent, than York!

Beauf.
His Sycophant!
The Creature of his Smiles!—Now, to be tame,
Would argue Guilt.—Madam, I do pronounce
The Duke of York, a Traitour, by Descent!—

York.
There spoke the Fiend! The Father of Detraction!—

Warw.
The Murderer of Gloucester!—

Queen.
Malicious Outrage!—

Beauf.
Slight Boy!—We set, at Nought, what Thou can'st say.
But, that aspiring Duke (whom thou doest eccho)
Thinks, this a Time, to manifest his Treason.

York.
Thou common Spoiler!—Doest Thou talk of Treason?

Beauf.
The Lord Protectour, dead; My Life is sought:
That Henry (sole-surviving Lancaster)

Left destitute; the hated Name of York
May thrive,—may tyrannize, in Usurpation!

Queen.
'Tis manifest!

Warw.
How Guilt would fain evade—

Beauf.
With him do both the Nevils (profuse Warwick,
And subtle Salisbury) joyn,—

Warw.
Blood-thirsty Man!—

Queen.
Yes!—It is evident, you all conspire!—
What, else, should prompt you to be, thus, audacious?
Thus, to arraign his venerable Age?
A Bishop!—Cardinal!—Uncle to your King!

Beauf.
And, shall the Church, you wound through Me, not censure!—
O, Religion!—

Queen.
Beaufort, with Me!—
But;—see, you prove your Scandal:—Or, your Heads
Shall pay the Forfeit!

Warw.
I expect no Favour.—

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