Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Mow. Thus do the hopes we haue in him, touch ground,
Mow. And dash themselues to pieces.
Mow. Enter a Messenger.
Hast. Hast.
Hast. Now? what newes?
Mess. Mess.
Mess. West of this Forrest, scarcely off a mile,
Mess. In goodly forme, comes on the Enemie:
Mess. And by the ground they hide, I iudge their number
Mess. Vpon, or neere, the rate of thirtie thousand.
Mow. Mow.
Mow. The iust proportion that we gaue them out.
Mow. Let vs sway‑on, and face them in the field.
Mow. Enter Westmterland.
Bish. Bish.
Bish. What well‑appointed Leader fronts vs here?
Mow. I thinke it is my Lord of Westmerland.
West. West.
West. Health, and faire greeting from our Generall,