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XCII.

[Hur.]
Through hamlets we will scatter death and dole,
Bathe in hot gore, and wash ourselves therein;
Gods! here the Saxons, like a billow, roll,
I hear the clashing swords' detested din!
Away, away, ye Danes, to yonder penne,
We now will make retreat, in time to fight again.
[Exeunt.