Whose ruin you three sought, that to her laws
We do deliver you. Get you, therefore, hence,
Poor miserable wretches, to your death:
The taste whereof, Heaven of its mercy give you
Patience to endure, and true repentance
Of all your dear offences![13]—Bear them hence.
Conspirators rise and exeunt guarded, with Exeter.
Now, Lords, for France; the enterprize whereof
Shall be to you, as us, like glorious.
We doubt not of a fair and lucky war,