Where if I find that hateful house of hers, I'll pull the pickle wheel from out her hands, And tie her self in everlasting bands.
But all in vain I breath these threatenings;
The day is lost, the Huns are conquerors, Debon is slain, my men are done to death, The currents swift swim violently with blood And last, O that this last night so long last, My self with wounds past all recovery Must leave my crown for Humber to possess.
STRUMBO.
Lord have mercy upon us, masters, I think this is a holy day; every man lies sleeping in the fields, but, God knows, full sore against their wills.
THRASIMACHUS.
Fly, noble Albanact, and save thy self.
The Scithians follow with great celerity, And there's no way but flight, or speedy death;Fly, noble Albanact, and save thy self.
[Exit Thrasimachus. Sound the alarm.]
ALBA.
Nay, let them fly that fear to die the death, That tremble at the name of fatal mors.
Never shall proud Humber boast or brag himself That he hath put young Albanact to flight;And least he should triumph at my decay, This sword shall reave his master of his life, That oft hath saved his master's doubtful life:
But, oh, my brethren, if you care for me, Revenge my death upon his traitorous head.