The third Part of King Henry the Sixt.Foreslow no longer, make we hence amaine.Exeunt
[Act 2, Scene 4]
Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.Rich.Now
Clifford, I haue singled thee alone,
Suppose this arme is for the Duke of Yorke,
[1045]
And this for Rutland, both bound to reuenge,Wer't thou inuironed with a Brazen wall.Clif,Now
Richard, I am with thee heere alone,
This is the hand that stabb'd thy Father Yorke,And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland,
[1050]
And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death,And cheeres these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother,To execute the like vpon thy selfe,And so haue at thee.They Fight, Warwicke comes, Clifford flies.Rich.Nay Warwicke, single out some other Chace,
[1055]
For I my selfe will hunt this Wolfe to death.Exeunt.
[Act 2, Scene 5]
Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.Hen.This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,When dying clouds contend, with growing light,What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
[1060]
Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde:Now swayes it that way, like the selfe‑same Sea,Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde.Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde:
[1065]
Now, one the better: then, another best;Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest:Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered.So is the equall poise of this fell Warre.Heere on this Mole‑hill will I sit me downe,
[1070]
To whom God will, there be the Victorie:For
Margaret my Queene, and
Clifford too
Haue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both,They prosper best of all when I am thence.Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so;
[1075]
For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe.Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life,To be no better then a homely Swaine,To sit vpon a hill, as I do now,To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point,
[1080]
Thereby to see the Minutes how they runne:How many makes the Houre full compleate,How many Houres brings about the Day,How many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare,How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue.
[1085]
When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times:So many Houres, must I tend my Flocke;:So many Houres, must I take my Rest:So many Houres, must I Contemplate:So many Houres, must I Sport my selfe:
[1090]
So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong:So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane:So many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece:So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares,Past ouer to the end they were created,
[1095]
Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue.Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely?Giues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shadeTo Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe,Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie
[1100]
To Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie?Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,
His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle,His wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade,
[1105]
All which secure, and sweetly he enioyes,Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates:His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup,His bodie couched in a curious bed,When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.Alarum. Enter a Sonne that hath killed his Father, at
one doore: and a Father that hath killed his Sonne at ano
ther doore.
Son.
[1110]
Ill blowes the winde that profits no body,This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,May be possessed with some store of Crownes,And I that (haply) take them from him now,May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them
[1115]
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face,Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) have kill'd:Oh heauy times! begetting such Euents.From London, by the King was I prest forth,
[1120]
My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man,Came on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master;And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life,Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him.Pardon me God, I knew not what I did:
[1125]
And pardon Father, for I knew not thee.My Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes:And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill.King.O pitteous spectacle! O bloody Times!Whiles Lyons Warre, and battaile for their Dennes,
[1130]
Poore harmlesse Lambes abide their enmity.Weepe wretched man: Ile ayde thee Teare for Teare,And let our hearts and eyes, like Ciuill Warre,Be blinde with teares, and break ore‑charged with griefeEnter Father, bearing of his Sonne.Fa.Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,
[1135]
Giue me thy Gold, if thou hast any Gold:For I haue bought it with an hundred blowes.But let me see: Is this our Foe‑mans face?Ah, no, no, no, it is mine onely Sonne.,Ah Boy, if any life be left in thee,
[1140]
Throw vp thine eye: see, see, what showres arise,Blowne with the windie Tempest of my heart,Vpon thy wounds, that killes mine Eye, and Heart.O pitty God, this miserable Age!What Stragems? how fell? how Butcherly?
[1145]
Erreoneous, mutinous, and vnnaturall,This deadly quarrell daily doth beget
?O Boy! thy Father gaue thee life too soone,And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.King.Wo aboue wo: greefe, more
thē
them common greefe
[1150]
O that my death would stay these ruthfull deeds:O pitty, pitty, gentle heauen pitty:The Red Rose and the White are on his face,The fatall Colours of our striuing Houses:The one, his purple Blood right well resembles,
[1155]
The other his pale Cheekes (me thinkes) presenteth:Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish:If you contend, a thousand liues must wither.Son.How will my Mother, for a Fathers deathTake on with me, and ne're be satisfi'd?Fa.
[1160]
How will my Wife, for slaughter of my Sonne,Shed seas of Teares, and ne're be satisfi'd?King.How will the Country, for these woful chances,Mis‑thinke
[Act 2, Scene 5]
Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.Hen.This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,When dying clouds contend, with growing light,What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
[1060]
Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde:Now swayes it that way, like the selfe‑same Sea,Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde.Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde:
[1065]
Now, one the better: then, another best;Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest:Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered.So is the equall poise of this fell Warre.Heere on this Mole‑hill will I sit me downe,
[1070]
To whom God will, there be the Victorie:For
Margaret my Queene, and
Clifford too
Haue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both,They prosper best of all when I am thence.Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so;
[1075]
For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe.Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life,To be no better then a homely Swaine,To sit vpon a hill, as I do now,To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point,
[1080]
Thereby to see the Minutes how they runne:How many makes the Houre full compleate,How many Houres brings about the Day,How many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare,How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue.
[1085]
When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times:So many Houres, must I tend my Flocke;:So many Houres, must I take my Rest:So many Houres, must I Contemplate:So many Houres, must I Sport my selfe:
[1090]
So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong:So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane:So many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece:So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares,Past ouer to the end they were created,
[1095]
Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue.Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely?Giues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shadeTo Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe,Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie
[1100]
To Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie?Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle,His wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade,
[1105]
All which secure, and sweetly he enioyes,Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates:His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup,His bodie couched in a curious bed,When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.Alarum. Enter a Sonne that hath killed his Father, at
one doore: and a Father that hath killed his Sonne at ano
ther doore.
Son.
[1110]
Ill blowes the winde that profits no body,This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,May be possessed with some store of Crownes,And I that (haply) take them from him now,May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them
[1115]
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face,Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) have kill'd:Oh heauy times! begetting such Euents.From London, by the King was I prest forth,
[1120]
My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man,Came on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master;And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life,Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him.Pardon me God, I knew not what I did:
[1125]
And pardon Father, for I knew not thee.My Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes:And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill.King.O pitteous spectacle! O bloody Times!Whiles Lyons Warre, and battaile for their Dennes,
[1130]
Poore harmlesse Lambes abide their enmity.Weepe wretched man: Ile ayde thee Teare for Teare,And let our hearts and eyes, like Ciuill Warre,Be blinde with teares, and break ore‑charged with griefeEnter Father, bearing of his Sonne.Fa.Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,
[1135]
Giue me thy Gold, if thou hast any Gold:For I haue bought it with an hundred blowes.But let me see: Is this our Foe‑mans face?Ah, no, no, no, it is mine onely Sonne.,Ah Boy, if any life be left in thee,
[1140]
Throw vp thine eye: see, see, what showres arise,Blowne with the windie Tempest of my heart,Vpon thy wounds, that killes mine Eye, and Heart.O pitty God, this miserable Age!What Stragems? how fell? how Butcherly?
[1145]
Erreoneous, mutinous, and vnnaturall,This deadly quarrell daily doth beget
?O Boy! thy Father gaue thee life too soone,And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.King.Wo aboue wo: greefe, more
thē
them common greefe
[1150]
O that my death would stay these ruthfull deeds:O pitty, pitty, gentle heauen pitty:The Red Rose and the White are on his face,The fatall Colours of our striuing Houses:The one, his purple Blood right well resembles,
[1155]
The other his pale Cheekes (me thinkes) presenteth:Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish:If you contend, a thousand liues must wither.Son.How will my Mother, for a Fathers deathTake on with me, and ne're be satisfi'd?Fa.
[1160]
How will my Wife, for slaughter of my Sonne,Shed seas of Teares, and ne're be satisfi'd?King.How will the Country, for these woful chances,Mis‑thinke the King, and not be satisfied?Son.Was euer sonne, so rew'd a Fathers death?Fath.
[1165]
Was euer Father so bemoan'd his Sonne?Hen.Was euer King so greeu'd for Subiects woe?Much is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much.Son.Ile beare thee hence, where I may weepe my fill.Fath.These armes of mine shall be thy winding sheet:
[1170]
My heart (sweet Boy) shall be thy Sepulcher,For from my heart, thine Image ne're shall go.My sighing brest, shall be thy Funerall bell;And so obsequious will thy Father be,Men for the losse of thee, hauing no more,
[1175]
As
Priam was for all his Valiant Sonnes,
Ile beare thee hence, and let them fight that will,For I haue murthered where I should not kill.ExitHen.Sad‑hearted‑men, much ouergone with Care;Heere sits a King, more wofull then you are.Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, the
Prince, and Exeter.
Prin.
[1180]
Fly Father, flye: for all your Friends are fled.And Warwicke rages like a chafed Bull:Away, for death doth hold vs in pursuite.Qu.Mount you my Lord, towards Barwicke post a
maine:
Edward and
Richard like a brace of Grey‑hounds,
[1185]
Hauing the fearfull flying Hare in sight,With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,And bloody steele graspt in their yrefull handsAre at our backes, and therefore hence amaine.Exet.Away: for vengeance comes along with them.
[1190]
Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed,Or else come after, Ile away before.Hen.Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:Not that I feare to stay, but loue to goWhether the Queene intends. Forward, away.Exeunt
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<div type="scene" n="5" rend="notPresent">
<head type="supplied">[Act 2, Scene 5]</head>
<stage rend="italic center" type="mixed">Alarum. Enter King Henry alone.</stage>
<sp who="#F-3h6-hn6">
<speaker rend="italic">Hen.</speaker>
<l n="1056">This battell fares like to the mornings Warre,</l>
<l n="1057">When dying clouds contend, with growing light,</l>
<l n="1058">What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes,</l>
<l n="1059">Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.</l>
<l n="1060">Now swayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea,</l>
<l n="1061">Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde:</l>
<l n="1062">Now swayes it that way, like the selfe‑same Sea,</l>
<l n="1063">Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde.</l>
<l n="1064">Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde:</l>
<l n="1065">Now, one the better: then, another best;</l>
<l n="1066">Both tugging to be Victors, brest to brest:</l>
<l n="1067">Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered.</l>
<l n="1068">So is the equall poise of this fell Warre.</l>
<l n="1069">Heere on this Mole‑hill will I sit me downe,</l>
<l n="1070">To whom God will, there be the Victorie:</l>
<l n="1071">For<hi rend="italic">Margaret</hi>my Queene, and<hi rend="italic">Clifford</hi>too</l>
<l n="1072">Haue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both,</l>
<l n="1073">They prosper best of all when I am thence.</l>
<l n="1074">Would I were dead, if Gods good will were so;</l>
<l n="1075">For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe.</l>
<l n="1076">Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life,</l>
<l n="1077">To be no better then a homely Swaine,</l>
<l n="1078">To sit vpon a hill, as I do now,</l>
<l n="1079">To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point,</l>
<l n="1080">Thereby to see the Minutes how they runne:</l>
<l n="1081">How many makes the Houre full compleate,</l>
<l n="1082">How many Houres brings about the Day,</l>
<l n="1083">How many Dayes will finish vp the Yeare,</l>
<l n="1084">How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue.</l>
<l n="1085">When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times:</l>
<l n="1086">So many Houres, must I tend my Flocke;:</l>
<l n="1087">So many Houres, must I take my Rest:</l>
<l n="1088">So many Houres, must I Contemplate:</l>
<l n="1089">So many Houres, must I Sport my selfe:</l>
<l n="1090">So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong:</l>
<l n="1091">So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane:</l>
<l n="1092">So many yeares, ere I shall sheere the Fleece:</l>
<l n="1093">So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares,</l>
<l n="1094">Past ouer to the end they were created,</l>
<l n="1095">Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue.</l>
<l n="1096">Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how louely?</l>
<l n="1097">Giues not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shade</l>
<l n="1098">To Shepheards, looking on their silly Sheepe,</l>
<l n="1099">Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie</l>
<l n="1100">To Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie?</l>
<l n="1101">Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.</l>
<l n="1102">And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds,</l>
<cb n="2"/>
<l n="1103">His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle,</l>
<l n="1104">His wonted sleepe, vnder a fresh trees shade,</l>
<l n="1105">All which secure, and sweetly he enioyes,</l>
<l n="1106">Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates:</l>
<l n="1107">His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup,</l>
<l n="1108">His bodie couched in a curious bed,</l>
<l n="1109">When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him.</l>
</sp>
<stage rend="italic" type="mixed">Alarum. Enter a Sonne that hath killed his Father, at
<lb/>one doore: and a Father that hath killed his Sonne at ano
<lb/>ther doore.</stage>
<sp who="#F-3h6-son">
<speaker rend="italic">Son.</speaker>
<l n="1110">Ill blowes the winde that profits no body,</l>
<l n="1111">This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,</l>
<l n="1112">May be possessed with some store of Crownes,</l>
<l n="1113">And I that (haply) take them from him now,</l>
<l n="1114">May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them</l>
<l n="1115">To some man else, as this dead man doth me.</l>
<l n="1116">Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face,</l>
<l n="1117">Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) have kill'd:</l>
<l n="1118">Oh heauy times! begetting such Euents.</l>
<l n="1119">From London, by the King was I prest forth,</l>
<l n="1120">My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man,</l>
<l n="1121">Came on the part of Yorke, prest by his Master;</l>
<l n="1122">And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life,</l>
<l n="1123">Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him.</l>
<l n="1124">Pardon me God, I knew not what I did:</l>
<l n="1125">And pardon Father, for I knew not thee.</l>
<l n="1126">My Teares shall wipe away these bloody markes:</l>
<l n="1127">And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-hn6">
<speaker rend="italic">King.</speaker>
<l n="1128">O pitteous spectacle! O bloody Times!</l>
<l n="1129">Whiles Lyons Warre, and battaile for their Dennes,</l>
<l n="1130">Poore harmlesse Lambes abide their enmity.</l>
<l n="1131">Weepe wretched man: Ile ayde thee Teare for Teare,</l>
<l n="1132">And let our hearts and eyes, like Ciuill Warre,</l>
<l n="1133">Be blinde with teares, and break ore‑charged with griefe</l>
</sp>
<stage rend="italic center" type="entrance">Enter Father, bearing of his Sonne.</stage>
<sp who="#F-3h6-fat">
<speaker rend="italic">Fa.</speaker>
<l n="1134">Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,</l>
<l n="1135">Giue me thy Gold, if thou hast any Gold:</l>
<l n="1136">For I haue bought it with an hundred blowes.</l>
<l n="1137">But let me see: Is this our Foe‑mans face?</l>
<l n="1138">Ah, no, no, no, it is mine onely Sonne.,</l>
<l n="1139">Ah Boy, if any life be left in thee,</l>
<l n="1140">Throw vp thine eye: see, see, what showres arise,</l>
<l n="1141">Blowne with the windie Tempest of my heart,</l>
<l n="1142">Vpon thy wounds, that killes mine Eye, and Heart.</l>
<l n="1143">O pitty God, this miserable Age!</l>
<l n="1144">What Stragems? how fell? how Butcherly?</l>
<l n="1145">Erreoneous, mutinous, and vnnaturall,</l>
<l n="1146">This deadly quarrell daily doth beget<hi rend="italic">?</hi>
</l>
<l n="1147">O Boy! thy Father gaue thee life too soone,</l>
<l n="1148">And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-hn6">
<speaker rend="italic">King.</speaker>
<l n="1149">Wo aboue wo: greefe, more<choice>
<abbr>thē</abbr>
<expan>them</expan>
</choice>common greefe</l>
<l n="1150">O that my death would stay these ruthfull deeds:</l>
<l n="1151">O pitty, pitty, gentle heauen pitty:</l>
<l n="1152">The Red Rose and the White are on his face,</l>
<l n="1153">The fatall Colours of our striuing Houses:</l>
<l n="1154">The one, his purple Blood right well resembles,</l>
<l n="1155">The other his pale Cheekes (me thinkes) presenteth:</l>
<l n="1156">Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish:</l>
<l n="1157">If you contend, a thousand liues must wither.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-son">
<speaker rend="italic">Son.</speaker>
<l n="1158">How will my Mother, for a Fathers death</l>
<l n="1159">Take on with me, and ne're be satisfi'd?</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-fat">
<speaker rend="italic">Fa.</speaker>
<l n="1160">How will my Wife, for slaughter of my Sonne,</l>
<l n="1161">Shed seas of Teares, and ne're be satisfi'd?</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-hn6">
<speaker rend="italic">King.</speaker>
<l n="1162">How will the Country, for these woful chances,</l>
<pb facs="FFimg:axc0513-0.jpg" n="157"/>
<cb n="1"/>
<l n="1163">Mis‑thinke the King, and not be satisfied?</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-son">
<speaker rend="italic">Son.</speaker>
<l n="1164">Was euer sonne, so rew'd a Fathers death?</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-fat">
<speaker rend="italic">Fath.</speaker>
<l n="1165">Was euer Father so bemoan'd his Sonne?</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-hn6">
<speaker rend="italic">Hen.</speaker>
<l n="1166">Was euer King so greeu'd for Subiects woe?</l>
<l n="1167">Much is your sorrow; Mine, ten times so much.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-son">
<speaker rend="italic">Son.</speaker>
<l n="1168">Ile beare thee hence, where I may weepe my fill.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-fat">
<speaker rend="italic">Fath.</speaker>
<l n="1169">These armes of mine shall be thy winding sheet:</l>
<l n="1170">My heart (sweet Boy) shall be thy Sepulcher,</l>
<l n="1171">For from my heart, thine Image ne're shall go.</l>
<l n="1172">My sighing brest, shall be thy Funerall bell;</l>
<l n="1173">And so obsequious will thy Father be,</l>
<l n="1174">Men for the losse of thee, hauing no more,</l>
<l n="1175">As<hi rend="italic">Priam</hi>was for all his Valiant Sonnes,</l>
<l n="1176">Ile beare thee hence, and let them fight that will,</l>
<l n="1177">For I haue murthered where I should not kill.</l>
</sp>
<stage rend="italic rightJustified" type="exit">Exit</stage>
<sp who="#F-3h6-hn6">
<speaker rend="italic">Hen.</speaker>
<l n="1178">Sad‑hearted‑men, much ouergone with Care;</l>
<l n="1179">Heere sits a King, more wofull then you are.</l>
</sp>
<stage rend="italic center" type="mixed">Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, the
<lb/>Prince, and Exeter.</stage>
<sp who="#F-3h6-ped">
<speaker rend="italic">Prin.</speaker>
<l n="1180">Fly Father, flye: for all your Friends are fled.</l>
<l n="1181">And Warwicke rages like a chafed Bull:</l>
<l n="1182">Away, for death doth hold vs in pursuite.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-qma">
<speaker rend="italic">Qu.</speaker>
<l n="1183">Mount you my Lord, towards Barwicke post a
<lb/>maine:</l>
<l n="1184">
<hi rend="italic">Edward</hi>and<hi rend="italic">Richard</hi>like a brace of Grey‑hounds,</l>
<l n="1185">Hauing the fearfull flying Hare in sight,</l>
<l n="1186">With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,</l>
<l n="1187">And bloody steele graspt in their yrefull hands</l>
<l n="1188">Are at our backes, and therefore hence amaine.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-exe">
<speaker rend="italic">Exet.</speaker>
<l n="1189">Away: for vengeance comes along with them.</l>
<l n="1190">Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed,</l>
<l n="1191">Or else come after, Ile away before.</l>
</sp>
<sp who="#F-3h6-hn6">
<speaker rend="italic">Hen.</speaker>
<l n="1192">Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:</l>
<l n="1193">Not that I feare to stay, but loue to go</l>
<l n="1194">Whether the Queene intends. Forward, away.</l>
</sp>
<stage rend="italic rightJustified" type="exit">Exeunt</stage>
</div>
