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Ethw. Come on, thou boasting fool! give thy sword work And spare thy cursed tongue.

Her. Ay, surely will I! It is the sword of noble Ethelbert, Its master's blood weighs down its heavy strokes; His unseen hand directs them. First Ch. Bless heaven, the work is done!

Sec. Ch. Now Mercia is revenged, and free-born men May rest their toil'd limbs in their quiet homes.

''Third Ch. (going nearer the body.)'' Ha! does he groan?

Sec. Ch. No, he dies sullenly, and to the wall Turns his writh'd form and death-distorted visage.

Her. Now hath his loaded soul gone to its place, And ne'er a pitying voice from his kind Cries, "God have mercy on him!"

Third Ch. I've vow'd to dip my weapon in his blood.

Young Man. My father in the British wars was seiz'd A British prisoner, and with all he had,