The Raigne of King
Muster about him whilest he Lion like,
Intangled in the net of their assaults,
Frantiquely wrends and byts the wouen toyle,
But all in vaine, he cannot free him selfe.
Intangled in the net of their assaults,
Frantiquely wrends and byts the wouen toyle,
But all in vaine, he cannot free him selfe.
K: Ed: Audley content, I will not haue a man,
On paine of death sent forth to succour him:
This is the day, ordaynd by desteny,
To season his courage with those greeuous thoughts,
That if he breaketh out, Nestors yeares on earth,
Will make him sauor still of this exployt.
On paine of death sent forth to succour him:
This is the day, ordaynd by desteny,
To season his courage with those greeuous thoughts,
That if he breaketh out, Nestors yeares on earth,
Will make him sauor still of this exployt.
Dar: Ah but he shall not liue to see those dayes,
Ki: Why then his Ephitaph, is lasting prayse.
An: Yet good my Lord, tis too much wilfulnes,
To let his blood be spilt that may be saude,
To let his blood be spilt that may be saude,
Kin. Exclayme no more, for none of you can tell,
Whether a borrowed aid will serue or no,
Perhapps he is already slayne or tane:
And dare a Falcon when shees in her flight,
And euer after sheele be huggard like:
Let Edward be deliuered by our hands,
And still in danger hele expect the like,
But if himselfe, himselfe redeeme from thence,
He wil haue vanquisht cheerefull death and feare,
And euer after dread their force no more,
Then if they were but babes or Captiue slaues.
Whether a borrowed aid will serue or no,
Perhapps he is already slayne or tane:
And dare a Falcon when shees in her flight,
And euer after sheele be huggard like:
Let Edward be deliuered by our hands,
And still in danger hele expect the like,
But if himselfe, himselfe redeeme from thence,
He wil haue vanquisht cheerefull death and feare,
And euer after dread their force no more,
Then if they were but babes or Captiue slaues.
Aud. O cruell Father, farewell Edward then.
Da: Farewell sweete Prince, the hope of chiualry,
Art: O would my life might ransome him from death.
K. Ed: But soft me thinkes I heare,
The dismall charge of Trumpets loud retreat:
All are not slayne I hope that went with him,
Some will returne with tidings good or bad.
The dismall charge of Trumpets loud retreat:
All are not slayne I hope that went with him,
Some will returne with tidings good or bad.
Enter Prince Edward in tryumph, bearing in his hande his
shiuered Launce, and the King of Boheme, borne before,
wrapt in the Coullours: They runne and imbrace him.
shiuered Launce, and the King of Boheme, borne before,
wrapt in the Coullours: They runne and imbrace him.
Au. O
