, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife's allies, And make me happy in your unity. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate On you or yours, but with all duteous love Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me With hate in those where I expect most love! When I have most need to employ a friend, And most assured that he is a friend Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile, Be he unto me! this do I beg of God, When I am cold in zeal to yours. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here, To make the perfect period of this peace. And, in good time, here comes the noble duke. Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen: And, princely peers, a happy time of day! Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. Brother, we done deeds of charity; Made peace enmity, fair love of hate, Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege: Amongst this princely heap, if any here, By false intelligence, or wrong surmise, Hold me a foe; If I unwittingly, or in my rage, Have aught committed that is hardly borne By any in this presence, I desire To reconcile me to his friendly peace: 'Tis death to me to be at enmity; I hate it, and desire all good men's love. First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, Which I will purchase with my duteous service; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodged between us; Of you, Lord Rivers, and, Lord Grey, of you; That without desert have frown'd on me; Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds More than the infant that is born to-night I thank my God for my humility. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter: I would to God all strifes were well compounded. My sovereign liege, I do beseech your majesty To take our brother Clarence to your grace. Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this To be so bouted in this royal presence? Who knows not that the noble duke is dead? You do him injury to scorn his corse. Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is? All seeing heaven, what a world is this! Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest? Ay, my good lord; and no one in this