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 The Duke is slaine and all his power dispearst, And we are grac'd with wreathes of victory: Thus God we see doth ever guide the right, To make his glory great upon the earth.

Bar. The terrour of this happy victory, I hope will make the King surcease his hate: And either never mannage army more, Or else employ them in some better cause.

Na. How many noble men have lost their lives, In prosecution of these cruell armes, Is ruth and almost death to call to minde: But God we know will alwaies put them downe, That lift themselves against the perfect truth, Which Ile maintaine as long as life doth last, And with the Q. of England joyne my force: To beat the papall Monarck from our lands, And keep those relicks from our countries coastes. Come my Lords now that this storme is overpast, Let us away with triumph to our tents.

Soul. Sir, to you sir, that dare make the Duke a cuckolde, And use a counterfeite key to his privie Chamber doore: And although