Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Mess. Flocke to the Rebels, and their power growes strong.
Mess. Enter another Messenger.
Mess. Mess.
Mess. My Lord, the Armie of great Buckingham.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. Out on ye, Owles, nothing but Songs of Death,
Rich. He striketh him.
Rich. There, take thou that, till thou bring better newes.
Mess. The newes I haue to tell your Maiestie,
Mess. Is, that by sudden Floods, and fall of Waters,
Mess. Buckinghams Armie is dispers'd and scatter'd,
Mess. And he himselfe wandred away alone,
Mess. No man knowes whither.
Rich. I cry thee mercie:
Rich. There is my Purse, to cure that Blow of thine.
Rich. Hath any well‑aduised friend proclaym'd
Rich. Reward to him that brings the Traytor in?