And craues your companie for speedie councell.
[♦] War. Why then it sorts braue Lordes. Lets march away. Exeunt Omnes.
SC. V. eae
Quee. Welcome my Lord to this braue town of York.
[♦] Yonders the head of that ambitious enemie,
That sought to be impaled with your crowne.
Doth not the obiect please your eie my Lord?
5 King. Euen as the rockes please them that feare their wracke.
Withhold reuenge deare God, tis not my fault,
Nor wittinglie haue I infringde my vow.