Your bastard Teucers, that, their mischiefes done,[50]

Runne to your shield for shelter; Cacusses

That cut their too large murtherous theveries

To their dens length still. Woe be to that state

Where treacherie guards, and ruine makes men great!

Hen. Goe, take my letters for him, and release him.55

Om. Thankes to your Highnesse; ever live your Highnesse! Exeunt.

Baligny. Better a man were buried quicke then live

A propertie for state and spoile to thrive. Exit.