And twise so oft came Edward to my view,
60 With purple Faulchen painted to the hilts,
In bloud of those whom he had slaughtered.
[♦] Oh harke, I heare the drums? No waie to flie:
No waie to saue my life? And heere I staie:
And heere my life must end.
Enter the Queene, Clifford, Northumberland, and souldiers.
Come bloudie Clifford, rough Northumberland,
I dare your quenchlesse furie to more bloud:
This is the But, and this abides your shot.