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Ethw. Nay, nay, these are excuses, noble Edmar, Not reasons; all our northern troops ere now Might have been ready for the field. 'Tis plain Such backwardness from disaffection springs. Look to it well:—if with this waining moon, He and his followers have not join'd our standard, I'll hold him as a traitor.

Thane. My royal Lord, be not so wroth with him, Nor let your noble mind to dark suspicion So quickly yield. This is the season still, When unbraced warriours on the rushy floor Stretch them in pleasing sloth; list'ning to tales Of ancient crones, or merry harpers lays, And batt'ning on the housewifes' gusty cheer: Spring has not yet so temper'd the chill sky That men will change their warm and shelt'ring roofs For its cold canopy.

Ethw. O foul befal their gluttony and sloth! Fie on't! there is no season to the brave For war unfit. With this moon's waining light, I will, with those who dare their king to follow, My northern march begin.

Thane. Then faith, my Lord, I much suspect your army will be small. And what advantage may you well expect From all this haste? E'en three weeks later, still You will surprise the foe but ill prepar'd To oppose invasion. Do then, gracious king,