Loc.
Tell me, Assarachus, are the Cornish Chuffs
In such great number come to Mercia,
And have they pitched there their Host,
So close unto our Royal Mansion?

Assa.
They are, my Lord, and mean incontinent
To bid Defiance to your Majesty.

Loc.
It makes me laugh, to think that Guendeline
Should have the Heart to come in Arms against me.

Est.
Alas, my Lord, the Horse will run amain
When as the Spur doth gall him to the Bone;
Jealousie, Locrine, hath a wicked sting.

Loc.
Sayst thou so, Estrild, Beauty's Paragon?
Well, we will try her Choler to the Proof,
And make her know, Locrine can brook no braves.
March on, Assarachus, thou must lead the way,
And bring us to their proud Pavilion. [Exeunt.

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