And then to purge his feare, Ile be thy death.
[♦] Henry and his sonne are gone, thou Clarence next,
80 And by one and one I will dispatch the rest,
Counting my selfe but bad, till I be best.
Ile drag thy bodie in another roome,
And triumph Henry in thy daie of doome. Exit.
SC. XXIII. eaw
[♦] Edw. Once more we sit in England’s royall throne,
Repurchasde with the bloud of enemies,
[♦] What valiant foemen like to Autumnes corne,