After a solemne seruice, enter from the widdowes house a seruice, V. ii.
musical songs of marriages, or a maske, or what prettie
triumph you list, to them, Ateukin and Gnato.
Ate. What means this triumph frend? why are these feasts?
Serui. Faire Ida sir, was marryed yesterday,
Vnto sir Eustace, and for that intent,
Wee feast and sport it thus to honour them:
And if you please, come in and take your part,
My Ladie is no niggard of her cheare. Exit.
Iaq. Monsigneur, why be you so sadda, fette bon chere fontre2060
de ce monde.
Ateu. What? was I borne to bee the scorne of kinne?
To gather feathers like to a hopper crowe,
And loose them in the height of all my pompe:
Accursed man now is my credite lost:
Where is my vowes I made vnto the king?
What shall become of mee, if hee shall heare,
That I haue causde him kill a vertuous Queene?
And hope in vaine for that which now is lost:
Where shall I hide my head? I knowe the heauens 2070
Are iust, and will reuenge: I know my sinnes
Exceede compare: should I proceed in this?
This Eustace must a man be made away:
Oh were I dead, how happy should I bee?
Iaq. Est ce donque a tell poynt vostre estat, faith then
adeiu Scotland, adeiu Signior Ateukin, me will homa
to France, and no be hanged in a strange country. Exit.
Ateu. Thou doest me good to leaue me thus alone,
That galling griefe and I may yoake in one:
Oh what are subtile meanes to clime on high? 2080
When euery fall swarmes with exceeding shame?
I promist Idaes loue vnto the Prince,
But shee is lost, and I am false forsworne:
I practis’d Dorotheas haplesse death,
And by this practise haue commenst a warre.
Oh cursed race of men that traficque guile,
And in the end, themselues and kings beguile:
A shamde to looke vpon my Prince againe:
A shamde of my suggestions and aduise:
A shamde of life: a shamde that I haue erde: 2090
Ile hide my selfe, expecting for my shame.
Thus God doth worke with those, that purschase fame
By flattery, and make their Prince their gaine. Exeunt.
Enter the King of England, Lord Percey, Samles, and others. V. iii.
Arius. Thus farre the English Peeres haue we displayde,
Our wauing Ensignes with a happy warre,
Thus neerely hath our furious rage reuengde,
My daughters death vpon the traiterous Scot,
And now before Dambar our campe is pitcht,
Which if it yeeld not to our compremise, 2100
The place shall furrow where the pallace stood,
And furie shall enuy so high a power,
That mercie shall bee bannisht from our swords.
Doug. What seekes the English King?