PEMBROKE.
Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

BASTARD.
'Tis true,--to hurt his master, no man else.

SALISBURY.
This is the prison:--what is he lies here?

[Seeing Arthur.]

PEMBROKE.
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

SALISBURY.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

BIGOT.
Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.

SALISBURY.
Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,
Or have you read or heard, or could you think?
Or do you almost think, although you see,
That you do see? could thought, without this object,
Form such another? This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,