right and fortune of his happy stars; Which God defend that I should wring from him! My lord, this argues conscience in your grace; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, All circumstances well considered. You say that Edward is your brother's son: So say we too, but not by Edward's wife; For first he was contract to Lady Lucy-- Your mother lives a witness to that vow-- And afterward by substitute betroth'd To Bona, sister to the King of France. These both put by a poor petitioner, A care-crazed mother of a many children, A beauty-waning and distressed widow, Even in the afternoon of her best days, Made prize and purchase of his lustful eye, Seduced the pitch and height of all his thoughts To base declension and loathed bigamy By her, in his unlawful bed, he got This Edward, whom our manners term the prince. More bitterly could I expostulate, Save that, for reverence to some alive, I give a sparing limit to my tongue. Then, good my lord, take to your royal self This proffer'd benefit of dignity; If non to bless us and the land withal, Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry From the corruption of abusing times, Unto a lineal true-derived course. Do, good my lord, your citizens entreat you. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer'd love. O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit! Alas, why would you heap these cares on me? I am unfit for state and majesty; I do beseech you, take it not amiss; I cannot nor I will not yield to you. If you refuse it,--as, in love and zeal, Loath to depose the child, Your brother's son; As well we know your tenderness of heart And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, Which we have noted in you to your kin, And egally indeed to all estates,-- Yet whether you accept our suit or no, Your brother's son shall never reign our king; But we will plant some other in the throne, To the disgrace and downfall of your house: And in this resolution here we leave you.-- Come, citizens: 'zounds! I'll entreat no more. O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham. Call them again, my lord, and accept their suit. Do, good my lord, lest all the land do rue it. Would you enforce me to a world of care? Well, call them again. I am not made of stone, But penetrable to your. kind entreats, Albeit against my conscience and my soul. Cousin of Buckingham, and you sage, grave men, Since you