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Act Four, Scene Five

Enter the King, Baldock, and Spencer the sonne, flying about the stage.

Fly, fly, my Lord, the Queene is over strong,
Her friends doe multiply and yours doe fayle,
Shape we our course to Ireland there to breath.

What, was I borne to flye and runne away,
And leave the Mortimers conquerers behind ?
Give me my horse and lets r'enforce our troupes:
And in this bed of honor die with fame.

O no my lord, this princely resolution
Fits not the time, away, we are pursu'd.

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