WARWICK

Bid him leave of the Lyons case he wears, Least meeting with the Lion in the field, He chance to tear him peecemede for his pride. They are my liege, but with a cheerful cry, Hight hunds and hardy chase them at the heals. Even she liege, whose beauty tyrants fear, As a May blossom with pernicious winds, Hath sullied, withered overcast and done. My gracious King, fair is she not at all, If that her self were by to stain herself, As I have seen her when she was her self. How is it that my sovereign is so sad, May I with pardon know your highness grief, And that my old endeavour will remove it, It shall not cumber long your majesty, Far be it from the honour of my age, That I should owe bright gold and render led, Age is a cyncke, not a flatterer, I say again, that I if knew your grief, And that by me it may be lesned, My proper harm should buy your highness good, These are the vulger tenders of false men, That never pay the duty of their words, If nothing but that lose may vantage you, I would accomplish that lose my vantage to, I cannot nor I would not if I could. What may be said to any perjured villain, That break the sacred warrant of and oath, How shall I enter in this graceless arrant, I must not call her child, for where the father, That will in such a suit seduce his child: Then wife of Salisbury shall I so begin: No he's my friend, and where is found the friend That will do friendship such indammagement: Neither my daughter, nor my deer friends wife, I am not Warwick as thou thinkest I am, But and attorney from the Court of hell: That thus have housd my spirit in his form, To do a message to thee from the king: The mighty king of England dotes on thee: He that hath power to take away thy life, Hath power to take thy honour, then consent, To pawn thine honour rather then thy life; Honour is often lost and God again, But life once gone, hath no recovery: The Sun that withersheye goes nourish grass, The king that would distain thee, will advance thee. The Poets write that great Achilles spear, Could heal the wound it made: the moral is, What mighty men misdoo, they can amend: The Lion does become his bloody jaws, And grace his orragement by being mild, When vassal fear lies trembling at his feet, The king will in his glory hide thy shame, And those that gaze on him to find out thee, Will lose their eyesight looking in the Sun: What can one drop of poison harm the Sea, Whose hugy vastures can digest the ill, And make it lose his operation: The kings great name will temper their misdeeds, And give the bitter portion of reproach: A sugared sweet, and most delicious taste: Beside it is no harm to do the thing, Which without shame, could not be left undone; Thus have I in his majesty's behalf, Apparraled sin, in virtuous sentences, And dwell upon thy answer in his suit. By heaven I will not though your majesty, Did bid me run upon your sword and di Say that my grief is no way dicinable, But by the lose and bruising e honour, That he hath broke his faith with God and man, And from them both stands excommunicate, And office for the devil not for man, It is my Lord. Why now thou speakest as I would have thee speak, And mark how I unsay my words again, And honourable graven is more esteemed, Then the polluted closet of a king, The greater man, the greater is the thing, Be it good or bade that he shall undertake, And unreputed mote, flying in the Sun, Presents a greater substance then it is: The freshest summer's day does soonest taint, The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss: Deep are the blows made with a mighty Axe, That sin does ten times agreuate it self, That is committed in a holy place, And evil deed done by authority, Is sin and subbornation: Deck and Ape In tissue, and the beauty of the robe, Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast: A spacious field of reasons could I urge, Between his gloomy daughter and thy shame, That poison shows worst in a golden cup, Dark night seems darker by the lightning flash, Lilies that fester, smel far worse then weeds, And every glory that inclines to sin, The shame is Triple, by the opposite, So leave I with my blessing in thy bosom, Which then convert to a most heavy curse, When thou convertest from honours golden name, To the black faction of bed blotting, shame.