And therefore frame the law unto my will. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. Between two hawks, which flies the higher 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 judgement; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance: The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, So clear, so shining and so evident That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts: Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. I love no colours, and without all colour Of base insinuating flattery I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset And say withal I think he held the right. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more, Till you conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected: If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. And I. Then for the truth and plainness of the case. I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest bleeding you do paint the white rose red And fall on my side so, against your will. If I my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. Well, well, come on: who else? Unless my study and my books be false, The argument you held was wrong in you: In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. Now, Somerset, where is your argument? Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The