child. What's worse than murderer, that I may name it? No, no, my heart will burst, and if I speak: And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals! How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd! You have no children, butchers! if you had, The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse: But if you ever chance to have a child, Look in his youth to have him so cut off As, deathmen, you have rid this sweet young prince! Away with her; go, bear her hence perforce. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here, Here sheathe thy sword, I'll pardon thee my death: What, wilt thou not? then, Clarence, do it thou. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it? Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself: 'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity. What, wilt thou not? Where is that devil's butcher, Hard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed; Petitioners for blood thou ne'er put'st back. Away, I say; I charge ye, bear her hence. So come to you and yours, as to this Prince! Where's Richard gone? To London, all in post; and, as I guess, To make a bloody supper in the Tower. He's sudden, if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence: discharge the common sort With pay and thanks, and let's away to London And see our gentle queen how well she fares: By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard? Ay, my good lord:--my lord, I should say rather; 'Tis sin to flatter; 'good' was little better: 'Good Gloucester' and 'good devil' were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not 'good lord.' Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece And next his throat unto the butcher's knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act? Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer. The bird that hath been limed in a bush, With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye Where my poor young was limed, was caught and kill'd