SC. XVII. daq
Cade. Now is Mortemer Lord of this Citie,
And now sitting vpon London stone, We command,
That the first yeare of our raigne,
The pissing Cundit run nothing but red wine.
[5] And now hence forward, it shall be treason
[♦] For any that calles me any otherwise then
Lord Mortemer.
Enter a souldier.
Sould. Iacke Cade, Iacke Cade.