Pence

O, forfend it, God,
That in a Christian climate souls refined
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by God, thus boldly for his king:

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king:

And if you crown him, let me prophesy:

The blood of English shall manure the ground,

And future ages groan for this foul act;

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,

And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars

Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;

Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny

Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd

The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls.

O, if you raise this house against this house,

It will the woefullest division prove

That ever fell upon this cursed earth.

Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,

Lest child, child's children, cry against you woe!