University of Virginia Library

Scena 5.

Enter Caradoc in haste, Guiniuer, her daughter, and Morgan.
Morg.

Cads blue-hood, Cousin, take her to her heeles:
was neuer in such tanshers. Will her not sturre? why looke
you now, the Romanes come vpon her with as many men,
as Mercers keepe Wenshes; or Wenshes decayed shentlemen.
Harke you: Ile call her Cousin Mauron, and our Cousin
Constantine, and come to her presently.

Cara.
Damned Cornewall, mayst thou sinke to hell for this,
Wrackt by the Furies on Ixions wheele,
And whipt with steele for this accursed treason.

Alarum.
Enter the Romanes with their Souldiours.
Ostor.
Yeeld thee, proud Welshman, or weele force thee yeelde.

Cara.
Art thou a Romane, and canst speake that language,
The mother tongue of fugitiues and slaues?
No, Romanes: spare these two; and if I flie,
The Romane hoste shall beare me company.

They fight, sometimes Caradoc rescueth his Wife, somtimes his daughter, and killeth many of the Romanes, & at last, they beate him in, and take his Wife and Daughter.
Ostorius.
Come, Lady, you must goe along with vs.

Guin.
Euen where you will, if Caradoc suruiue,
My dying soule and ioyes are yet aliue.

Exeunt.
Enter Caradoc disguised in a Souldiours habit.
Cara.
Fashion thy selfe, thou great and glorious light,
To my disguise, and maske thy subtill sight,
That peepes through euery cranny of the world;
Put on thy night-gowne of blacke foggy cloudes,
And hide thy searching eye from my disgrace.
Oh Cornewall, Cornewall, this thy trecherous act,
That hath eclips'd the glory of great Wales,
Shall to succeeding ages tell thy shame,
And honour sound, to heare of Cornewals name.
The gods with forked thunder strike thy wrong,
And men in shamefull Ballads sing thy fact,
That basely thus hast recompenst thy King.
But curses are like arrowes shot vpright.
That oftentimes on our owne heads do light:
And many times our selues in rage proue worst.
The Foxe ne're better thriues, but vvhen accurst.
This is a time for policy to moue,
And lackey vvith discretion, and not rage.
My thoughts must now be suted to my shute;
And common patience must attend the helme,
And stere my reason to the Cape of hope.
At Yorke the noble Prince Uenusius dwels,
That beares no small affection to our selfe,
To him Ile write a letter, whose contents
Shall certifie th'affaires concerne my selfe,
Which I my selfe in this disguyse will beare,
And sound the depth of his affection,
Which if but like a friend, he lend his hand,
Ile chase the Romanes from this famous land.

Exit.