YORKE: She wolfe of France, but worse than Wolues of France:

Whose tongue more poison'd than the Adders tooth

How ill beseeming is it in thy sexe,

To triumph like an Amazonian trull

Vpon his woes, whom Fortune captiuates?

But that thy face is visard like, vnchanging,

Made impudent by vse of euill deeds:

I would assaie, proud Queene to make thee blush:

To tell thee of whence thou art, from whom deriu'de,

Twere shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shamelesse.

Thy father beares the type of king of Naples,

Of both the Sissiles and Ierusalem,

Yet not so wealthie as an English Yeoman.

Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to insult?

It needes not, or it bootes thee not proud Queene,

Vnlesse the Adage must be verifide:

That beggars mounted, run their horse to death.

Tis beautie, that oft makes women proud,

But God he wots thy share thereof is small.

Tis Gouernment, that makes them most admired,

The contrarie doth make thee wondred at.

Tis vertue that makes them seeme deuine,

The want thereof makes thee abominable.

Thou art as opposite to euerie good,

As the Antipodes are vntu vs,

Or as the south to the Septentrion.

Oh Tygers hart wrapt in a womans hide?

How couldst thou draine the life bloud of the childe,

To bid the father wipe his eies withall,

And yet be seene to beare a womans face?

Women are milde, pittifull, and flexible,

Thou indurate, sterne, rough, remorcelesse.

Bids thou me rage? why now thou hast thy will.

Wouldst haue me weepe? why so thou hast thy wish.

For raging windes blowes vp a storme of teares,

And when the rage alaies the raine begins.

These teares are my sweet Rutlands obsequies,

And euerie drop begs vengeance as it falls.