Hum.
How bravely this young Briton, Albanact,
Darteth abroad the Thunderbolts of War,
Beating down Millions with his furious Mood:
And in his glory triumphs over all,
Moving the massie Squadrants of the Ground;
Heap Hills on Hills, to scale the starry Sky:
As when Briareus arm'd with an hundred Hands,
Flung forth an hundred Mountains at great Jove,
And when the monstrous Giant Monychus
Hurl'd Mount Olympus at great Mars his targe,
And shot huge Cedars at Minerva's Shield.
How doth he overlook with haughty Front
My fleeting Host, and lifts his lofty Face
Against us all that now do fear his Force;
Like as we see the wrathful Sea from far,
In a great Mountain heapt with hideous Noise,
With thousand Billows beat against the Ships,
And toss them in the Waves like Tennis Balls. [Sound the Alarm.
Ah me, I fear my Hubba is surpris'd. Sound again. Enter Albanact.

Alba.
Follow me, Soldiers, follow Albanact;
Pursue the Scythians flying through the Field:
Let none of them escape with Victory:
That they may know the Britons force is more
Than all the Power of the trembling Hunns.

Thra.
Forward, brave Soldiers, forward, keep the chase,
He that takes Captive Humber or his Son,
Shall be rewarded with a Crown of Gold.

Sound Alarm, then let them fight, Humber give back, Hubba enters at their backs, and kills Debon, Strumbo falls down, Albanact runs in, and afterwards enter wounded.

Alba.
Injurious Fortune, hast thou crost me thus?
Thus in the Morning of my Victories,
Thus in the Prime of my Felicity
To cut me off by such hard overthrow.
Hadst thou no time thy rancour to declare,
But in the Spring of all my Dignities?
Hadst thou no place to spit thy Venome out,
But on the Person of young Albanact?
I that e'erwhile did scare mine Enemies,
And drove them almost to a shameful Flight:
I that e'erwhile full Lion-like did fare
Amongst the dangers of the thick throng'd Pikes,
Must now depart most lamentably slain
By Humber's Treacheries and Fortune's spights:
Curst be her Charms, damn'd be her cursed Charms
That doth delude the wayward Hearts of Men,
Of Men that trust unto her fickle Wheel,
Which never leaveth turning upside-down.
O Gods, O Heav'ns, allot me but the place
Where I may find her hateful Mansion,
I'll pass the Alps to watry Meroe,
Where fiery Phœbus in his Chariot,
The Wheels whereof are deck'd with Emeralds,
Casts such a Heat, yea such a scorching Heat,
And spoileth Flora of her chequered Grass;
I'll overturn the Mountain Caucasus,
Where fell Chimæra in her triple Shape,
Rolleth hot Flames from out her monstrous Panch,
Scaring the Beasts with Issue of her Gorge?
I'll pass the frozen Zone where Icy flakes
Stopping the Passage of the fleeting Ships
Do lye, like Mountains in the congeal'd Sea,
Where if I find that hateful House of hers,
I'll pull the fickle Wheel from out her Hands,
And tye her self in everlasting Bands.
But all in vain I breathe these Threatnings,
The Day is lost, the Hunns are Conquerors,

Debon is slain, my Men are done to Death,
The currents swift swim violently with Blood,
And last, O that this last Night so long last,
My self with Wounds past all Recovery,
Must leave my Crown for Humber to possess.

Strum.

Lord have Mercy upon us, Masters, I think this is a Holy-day, very Man lyes sleeping in the Fields, but God knows full sore against their Wills.

Thra.
Fly, noble Albanact, and save thy self,
The Scythians follow with great Celerity,
And there's no way but Flight, or speedy Death,
Fly, noble Albanact, and save thy self. [Sound the Alarm.

Alba.
Nay let them fly that fear to die the Death,
That tremble at the Name of fatal Mors,
Ne'er shall proud Humber boast or brag himself,
That he hath put young Albanact to flight:
And lest he should triumph at my decay,
This Sword shall reave his Master of his Life,
That oft hath sav'd his Master's doubtful Life:
But oh my Brethren if you care for me,
Revenge my Death upon his Traiterous Head.

Et vos queis domus est nigrantis regia ditis,
Qui regitis rigido stygios moderamine lucos,
Nox cæci regina poli, furialis Erinnys,
Diique deæque omnes, Albanum tollite regem,
Tollite flumineis undis rigidaque palude;
Nunc me fata vocant, hoc condam pectore ferrum. [Stabs himself. Enter Trompart.
O what hath he done? his Nose bleeds; but I smell a Fox,
Look where my Master lyes, Master, Master.

Strum.
Let me alone, I tell thee, for I am dead.

Trom.
Yet one, good, good, Master.

Strum.
I will not speak, for I am dead, I tell thee.

Trom.

  And is my Master dead?
O Sticks and Stones, Brickbats and Bones,
  And is my Master dead?
O you Cockatrices, and you Bablatrices,
  That in the Woods dwell:

You Briers and Brambles, you Cook-shops and Shambles,
  Come howl and yell.
With howling and screeking, with wailing and weeping,
  Come you to lament.
O Colliers of Croyden, and Rusticks of Royden,
  And Fishers of Kent.
For Strumbo the Cobler, the fine merry Cobler
  Of Cathnes Town:
At this same stoure, at this very hour
  Lies dead on the Ground.
O Master, Thieves, Thieves, Thieves.

Strum.

Where be they? cox me tunny, bobekin, let me be rising, be gone, we shall be robb'd by and by.