Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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War. With promise of high pay, and great Rewards:
War. But all in vaine, they had no heart to fight,
War. And we (in them) no hope to win the day,
War. So that we fled: the King vnto the Queene,
War. Lord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe,
War. In haste, post haste, are come to ioyne with you:
War. For in the Marches heere we heard you were,
War. Making another Head, to fight againe.
Ed. Ed.
Ed. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, gentle Warwick?
Ed. And when came George from Burgundy to England?
War. War.
War. Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers,
War. And for your Brother be was lately sent
War. From your kinde Aunt Dutchesse of Burgundie,
War. With ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre.
Rich. Rich.
Rich. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled;
Rich. Oft haue I heard his praises in Pursuite,
Rich. But ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire.