Swet. Desperate and strange.
Dec. 'Tis won, Sir, and the Britains
All put to th' sword.
Swet. Give her fair Funeral;
She was truly noble, and a Queen.
Pet. —— Take it,
A Love-mange grown upon me? what, a spirit?
Jun. I am glad of this, I have found ye.
Petil. In my belly,
Oh how it tumbles!
Jun. Ye good gods, I thank ye. [Exeunt.
Actus Quintus. Scæna Prima.
Enter Caratach upon a rock, and Hengo by him, sleeping.