[Enter Locrine, Estrild, Sabren, Assarachus, and the soldiers.]
LOCRINE. Tell me, Assarachus, are the Cornish chuffes In such great number come to Mertia? And have they pitched there their petty host, So close unto our royal mansion?
ASSARACHUS. They are, my Lord, and mean incontinent To bid defiance to your majesty.
LOCRINE. It makes me laugh, to think that Gwendoline Should have the heart to come in arms gainst me.
ESTRILD. Alas, my Lord, the horse will run amain, When as the spur doth gall him to the bone. Jealousy, Locrine, hath a wicked sting.
LOCRINE. Sayest 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.]