Stan. Most mightie Soueraigne,
You haue no cause to hold my friendship doubtfull,
I neuer was, nor neuer will be false
Rich. Goe then, and muster men: but leaue behind
Your Sonne George Stanley: looke your heart be firme,
Or else his Heads assurance is but fraile
Stan. So deale with him, as I proue true to you.
Exit Stanley.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. My gracious Soueraigne, now in Deuonshire,
As I by friends am well aduertised,
Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughtie Prelate,
Bishop of Exeter, his elder Brother,
With many moe Confederates, are in Armes.
Enter another Messenger
Mess. In Kent, my Liege, the Guilfords are in Armes,
And euery houre more Competitors
Flocke to the Rebels, and their power growes strong.
Enter another Messenger.
Mess. My Lord, the Armie of great Buckingham
Rich. Out on ye, Owles, nothing but Songs of Death,
He striketh him.