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oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou

hadst been in thine own slaughter-house: there-

fore thus will I reward thee; the Lent shall be

as long again as it is, and thou shalt have a

licence to kill for a hundred lacking one.

Butch. I desire no more.

Cade. And, to speak truth, thou deserv'st no

less. This monument of the victory will I bear;

[Puts on Sir Humphrey Stafford's armour.]

and the bodies shall be dragged at my horse'

heels, till I do come to London, where we will

have the Mayor's sword borne before us.

Butch. If we mean to thrive and do good,

break open the gaols and let out the prisoners.

Cade. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come;

let's march towards London.

Queen. Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,

And makes it fearful and degenerate;

Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep.

But who can cease to weep and look on this?

Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast;

But where's the body that I should embrace?

Buck. What answer makes your Grace to the

rebels' supplication?

King. I'll send some holy bishop to entreat;

 8 licence to kill; cf. n.

17 Fear: doubt 