Boling.
Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear,
Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire
Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta'en or slain, we hear not. Enter Northumberland.
Welcome, my lord: what is the news?

North.
First to thy sacred state wish I all happiness;
The next news is, I have to London sent
The heads of Sal'sbury, Spencer, Blunt and Kent
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here. [Presenting a paper.

Boling.
We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter Fitz-water.

Fitzw.
My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely;
Two of the dangerous consorted traytors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Boling.
Thy pains, Fitz-water, shall not be forgot,
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Percy and the Bishop of Carlisle.

Percy.
The grand conspirator Abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience, and sour melancholy,
Hath yielded up his body to the grave:
But here is Carlisle, living to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.

Boling.
Carlisle, this is your doom:
Chuse out some secret place, some reverend room
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife.
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee I have seen.

Enter Exton with a coffin.

Exton.
Great King, within this coffin I present
Thy bury'd fear. Herein all breathless lyes
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bourdeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling.
Exton I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought
A deed of slaughter with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head, and all this famous land.

Exton.
From your own mouth, my Lord, did I this deed.

Boling.
They love not poison, that do poison need;
Nor do I thee, though I did wish him dead;
I hate the murth'rer, love him murthered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word, nor princely favour.
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never shew thy head by day, or light.
Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me, to make me grow.
Come mourn with me for what I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent:
I'll make a voyage to the Holy-land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after, grace my mourning here,
In weeping over this untimely bier. [Exeunt omnes.

The WITH THE

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