, themselves, the conquerors. Make war upon themselves; blood against blood, Self against self: O, preposterous And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen; Or let me die, to look on death no more! Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary. Madam, farewell. I'll go along with you. You have no cause. My gracious lady, go; And thither bear your treasure and your goods. For my part, I'll resign unto your grace The seal I keep: and so betide to me As well I tender you and all of yours! Come, I'll conduct you to the sanctuary. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign The weary way hath made you melancholy. No, uncle; but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy I want more uncles here to welcome me. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years Hath not yet dived into the world's deceit Nor more can you distinguish of a man Than of his outward show; which, God he knows, Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you want were dangerous; Your grace attended to their sugar'd words, But look'd not on the poison of their hearts : God keep you from them, and from such false friends! God keep me from false friends! but they were none. My lord, the mayor of London comes to greet you. God bless your grace with health and happy days! I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all. I thought my mother, and my brother York, Would long ere this have met us on the way Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not To tell us whether they will come or no! And, in good time, here comes the sweating lord. Welcome, my lord: what, will our mother come? On what occasion, God he knows, not I, The queen your mother, and your brother York, Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince Would fain have come with me to meet your grace, But by his mother was perforce withheld. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course Is this of hers! Lord cardinal, will your grace Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York Unto his princely brother presently? If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him, And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory Can from his mother win the Duke of York, Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid We should