down, Looking the way her harmless young one went, And can do nought but wail her darling's loss, Even so myself bewails good Gloucester's case With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm'd eyes Look after him and cannot do him good, So mighty are his vowed enemies. His fortunes I will weep; and, 'twixt each groan Say 'Who's a traitor? Gloucester he is none.' Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun's hot beams. Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, Too full of foolish pity, and Gloucester's show Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers, Or as the snake roll'd in a flowering bank, With shining chequer'd slough, doth sting a child That for the beauty thinks it excellent. Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I-- And yet herein I judge mine own wit good-- This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world, To rid us of the fear we have of him. That he should die is worthy policy; But yet we want a colour for his death: 'Tis meet he be condemn'd by course of law. But, in my mind, that were no policy: The king will labour still to save his life, The commons haply rise, to save his life; And yet we have but trivial argument, More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death. So that, by this, you would not have him die. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I! 'Tis York that hath more reason for his death. But, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk, Say as you think, and speak it from your souls, Were't not all one, an empty eagle were set To guard the chicken from a hungry kite, As place Duke Humphrey for the king's protector? So the poor chicken should be sure of death. Madam, 'tis true; and were't not madness, then, To make the fox surveyor of the fold? Who being accused a crafty murderer, His guilt should be but idly posted over, Because his purpose is not executed. No; let him die, in that he is a fox, By nature proved an enemy to the flock, Before his chaps be stain'd with crimson blood, As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege. And do not stand on quillets how to slay him: Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety, Sleeping or waking, 'tis no matter how, So he be dead; for that is good deceit Which mates him first that first intends deceit. Thrice-noble Suffolk, 'tis resolutely spoke. Not resolute, except so much