_Enter Lord Hastings._ _Lord H._ This foolish woman hangs about my heart, Lingers and wanders in my fancy still; This coyness is put on, 'tis art and cunning, And worn to urge desire----I must possess her. The groom, who lift his saucy hand against me, E'er this, is humbled, and repents his daring. Perhaps, ev'n she may profit by th' example, And teach her beauty not to scorn my pow'r. _Glos._ This do, and wait me e'er the council sits. [_exeunt Ratcliffe and Catesby._ My lord, you're well encounter'd; here has been A fair petitioner this morning with us; Believe me, she has won me much to pity her: Alas! her gentle nature was not made To buffet with adversity. I told her How worthily her cause you had befriended; How much for your good sake we meant to do, That you had spoke, and all things should be well. _Lord H._ Your highness binds me ever to your service. _Glos._ You know your friendship is most potent with us, And shares our power. But of this enough, For we have other matters for your ear. The state is out of tune: distracting fears, And jealous doubts, jar in our public councils; Amidst the wealthy city, murmurs rise, Lewd railings, and reproach on those that rule, With open scorn of government; hence credit, And public trust 'twixt man and man, are broke. The golden streams of commerce are withheld, Which fed the wants of needy hinds and artizans, Who therefore curse the great, and threat rebellion. _Lord H._ The resty knaves are over-run with ease, As plenty ever is the nurse of faction; If in good days, like these, the headstrong herd Grow madly wanton and repine, it is Because the reins of power are held too slack, And reverend authority of late Has worn a face of mercy more than justice. _Glos._ Beshrew my heart! but you have well divin'd The source of these disorders. Who can wonder If riot and misrule o'erturn the realm, When the crown sits upon a baby brow? Plainly to speak, hence comes the gen'ral cry, And sum of all complaint: 'twill ne'er be well With England (thus they talk) while children govern. _Lord H._ 'Tis true, the king is young: but what of that? We feel no want of Edward's riper years, While Gloster's valour and most princely wisdom So well support our infant sov'reign's place, His youth's support, and guardian to his throne. _Glos._ The council (much I'm bound to thank 'em for't) Have plac'd a pageant sceptre in my hand, Barren of pow'r, and subject to controul; Scorn'd by my foes, and useless to my friends. Oh, worthy lord! were mine the rule indeed, I think I should not suffer rank offence At large to lord it in the commonweal; Nor would the realm be rent by discord thus, Thus fear and doubt, betwixt disputed titles. _Lord H._ Of this I am to learn; as not supposing A doubt like this----