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The Scottish Historie of James the fourth, slaine at Flodden. Intermixed with a pleasant Comedie, presented by Oboram King of Fayeries : As it hath bene sundrie times publikely plaide. Written by Robert Greene, Maister of Arts. Omne tulit punetum. London Printed by Thomas Creede. 1598. 4to.

This play is most incorrectly printed ; and several passages are corrupted beyond the power of emendation.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

KING OF ENGLAND,
KING OF Scors,
Douglas,
Morton,
Ross,
BISHOP OF ST. ANDREWS,
Sir BARTRAM,
EUSTACE,
Sir CUTHBERT ANDERSON,
ATEUKIN,
JAQUES,
A LAWYER,
A MERCHANT,
A DIVINE,
SLIPPER,

Nano, a Dwarf.

Sons to Bohan,

ANDREW,
PURVEYOR, HERALD, Scour, HuntsmEN,

SOLDIERS, &c.

DOROTHEA, Queen of Scots,
COUNTESS OF ARRAN,
Ida, her Daughter,
LADY ANDERSON,
LADIES, &c.

OBERON, King of Fairies,
BOHAN,
Antics, FAIRIES, &c.

JAMES THE FOURTH.

Music playing within. Enter Aster OBERON,

king of fairies, [and] an Antic,* who dance about a tomb placed conveniently on the stage, out of the which suddenly starts up, as they dance, Bohan, a Scot, attired like a ridstall | man, from whom the Antic fies. OBERON manet. Boh. Ay say, what's thou? OBER. Thy friend, Bohan.

Boh. What wot I, or reck I that? Whay, guid man, I reck no friend, nor ay reck no foe; als ene tome. Get thee ganging, and trouble not may whayet, or ays gar thee recon me nene of thay friend, by the mary mass sall I.

Ober. Why, angry Scot, I visit thee for love; then what moves thee to wrath?

Bon. The deil awhit reck I thy love; for I know too well that true love took her flight twenty winter sence to heaven, whither till ay can, weel I wot, ay sall ne'er find love: an thou lovest me, leave me to myself, But what were those puppets that hopped and skipped about me year whayle?

* an Antic] But from the conversation between Oberon and Bohan, it is plain that more than one Antic dances, and that Oberon does not join in the sport.

+ ridstall] Qy. Riddesdale."

Ober. My subjects.
Bon. Thay subjects! whay, art thou a king?
OBER. I am.

Boh. The deil thou art! whay, thou lookest not so big as the king of clubs, nor so sharp as the king of spades, nor so fain as the king a' daymonds : be the mass, ay take thee to be the king of false hearts ; therefore I rid thee away, or ayse so curry your kingdom, that you's be glad to run to save your life.

Ober. Why, stoical Scot, do what thou darest to me; here is my breast, strike.

Boh. Thou wilt not threap me, this whinyard has gard many better men to lope than thou. But how now? Gos sayds, what, wilt not out? Whay, thou witch, thou deil ! Gads fute, may whinyard !

Ober. Why, pull, man : but what an 'twere out, how then?

Bon. This, then, thou wear't best begone first : for ay'l so lop thy limbs, that thou's go with half a knave's carcass to the deil.

Ober. Draw it out: now strike, fool, canst thou not?

Boy. Bread ay gad, what deil is in me? Whay, tell me, thou skipjack, what art thou?

OBER. Nay first tell me what thou wast from thy birth, what thou hast past hitherto, why thou dwellest in a tomb, and leavest the world ? and then I will release thee of these bonds; before, not.

Boh. And not before! then needs must, needs sall. I was born a gentleman of the best blood in all Scotland, except the king. When time brought me to age, and death took my parents, I became a courtier, where though ay list not praise myself, ay engraved the memory of Bohan* on the skin-coat of some of them, and revelled with the proudest.

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