Plant.
Now valiant gentlemen, what means this silence?
Dare no man answer in a case of truth?
Say—was not wrangling Somerset in the error?

Cliff.
Faith! I have been a truant in the law.
I never yet could frame my will unto it,
And therefore frame the law unto my will.

Som.
Judge you, my lord of Warwick, then between us.

War.
Between two hawks, which flies the highest pitch,—
Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth,—
Between two blades, which bears the better temper,—
Between two horses, which doth bear him best,—
Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye,—
I have, perhaps, some shallow spirit of judgment.
But in these nice, sharp quillets of the law,
Good faith—I am no wiser than a daw.

Plant.
Tut—tut—here is a mannerly forbearance—
Since ye are tongue-tied, and so loth to speak,
In dumb significance proclaim your thoughts:
Let him that is a true born gentleman,
And stands upon the honour of his birth,
From off this briar pluck a white rose with me.

Som.
Let him that is no coward and no flatterer,
But dares maintain the party of the truth,
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

War.
I love no colours; and, without all colour
Of base insinuating flattery,
I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.

Cliff.
Prick not your fingers as you pluck it off,
Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red,
As red as this I pluck for Somerset.

Plant.
Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?

Som.
Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?

Plant.
Aye—sharp and piercing to maintain his truth,
While thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.

Som.
Well—I'll find friends to wear my blushing rose,
Where false Plantagenet dares not be seen.

Plant.
Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,
I scorn thee and thy faction, peevish boy.

Cliff.
Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.

Plant.
Proud churl, I will.

Som.
Away, away, good Clifford—
We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.

War.
Now, by my faith, thou wrong'st him, Somerset—
His grandsire was great Edward's issue, Clarence.
Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?

Plant.
He bears him on his place's privilege,
Or durst not for his craven heart say thus.

Som.
By him that made me, I'll maintain my words.
Thy father, Cambridge, was he not attainted?
His treason yet lives guilty in thy blood,
And, till thou be restored, thou'rt but a yeoman.

Plant.
My father was attainted—yet no traitor—
Died, by the headsman's axe,—yet still no traitor—
And that I'll prove on—better men than Somerset.
And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,
As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,
Will I, for ever, and my faction wear,
Until it wither with me to my grave,
Or flourish to the height of my degree.

Som.
Go forward—and be choak'd with thy ambition—
And so farewell, until I meet thee next. [Ex. Somerset, Clifford, &c

Plant.
How am I braved!—yet must perforce endure it.

War.
This blot shall be wiped out before the king,
Who, if he bids thee not arise as York,
I will not live to be accounted Warwick.
—Meet me an hour hence, and we'll to the council. Plant.
First to my uncle's prison, aged March,
There drink fresh spirit from his fast bleeding wrongs.
Thence, in an hour's space, will I call for thee. [Exeunt severally.

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