Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Mor. For from his Mettle, was his Party steel'd;
Mor. Which once, in him abated, all the rest
Mor. Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy Lead:
Mor. And as the Thing, that's heauy in it selfe,
Mor. Vpon enforcement, flyes with greatest speede,
Mor. So did our Men, heavy in Hotspurres losse,
Mor. Lend to this weight, such lightnesse with their Feare,
Mor. That Arrowes fled not swifter toward their ayme,
Mor. Then did our Soldiers (ayming at their safety)
Mor. Fly from the field. Then was that Noble Worcester
Mor. Too soone ta'ne prisoner: and that furious Scot,
Mor. (The bloody Dowglas) whose well‑labouring sword
Mor. Had three times slaine th'appearance of the King,
Mor. Gan vaile his stomacke, and did grace the shame
Mor. Of those that turn'd their backes: and in his flight,
Mor. Stumbling in Feare, was tooke. The summe of all,
Mor. Is, that the King hath wonne: and hath sent out
Mor. A speedy power, to encounter you my Lord,
Mor. Vnder the Conduct of yong Lancaster
Mor. And Westmerland. This is the Newes at full.