Chapter 17

the Field of Battle.

[Enter Audley, wounded, & rescued by two squires.]

ESQUIRE. How fares my Lord?

AUDLEY. Even as a man may do, That dines at such a bloody feast as this.

ESQUIRE. I hope, my Lord, that is no mortal scar.

AUDLEY. No matter, if it be; the count is cast, And, in the worst, ends but a mortal man. Good friends, convey me to the princely Edward, That in the crimson bravery of my blood I may become him with saluting him. I’ll smile, and tell him, that this open scar Doth end the harvest of his Audley’s war.

[Exeunt.]