the Field of Battle.
[Enter Audley, wounded, & rescued by two squires.]
ESQUIRE.
How fares my Lord?
AUDLEY.
Even as a man may do,
That dines at such a bloody feast as this.
ESQUIRE.
I hope, my Lord, that is no mortal scar.
AUDLEY.
No matter, if it be; the count is cast,
And, in the worst, ends but a mortal man.
Good friends, convey me to the princely Edward,
That in the crimson bravery of my blood
I may become him with saluting him.
I’ll smile, and tell him, that this open scar
Doth end the harvest of his Audley’s war.
[Exeunt.]