ALBA:
Nay, let them fly that fear to die the death,
That tremble at the name of fatal mors.
Never shall proud Humber boast or brag himself
That he hath put young Albanact to flight;
And least he should triumph at my decay,
This sword shall reave his master of his life,
That oft hath saved his master’s doubtful life:
But, oh, my brethren, if you care for me,
Revenge my death upon his traitorous head. 
Et vos queis domus est nigrantis regia ditis,
Qui regitis rigido stigios moderamine lucos:
Nox coeci regina poli, furialis Erinnis,
Diique deaeque omnes, Albanum tollite regem,
Tollite flumineis undis rigidaque palude.
Nune me fata vocant, loc condam pectore ferrum. 
Thrusts himself through. Enter Trompart. 

TROMPART:
O, what hath he done? his nose bleeds.
But, oh, I smell a fox:
Look where my master lies. Master, master. 

STRUMBO:
Let me alone, I tell thee, for I am dead. 

TROMPART:
Yet one word, good master. 

STRUMBO:
I will not speak, for I am dead, I tell thee. 

TROMPART:
And is my master dead? O sticks and stones, brickbats and bones, and is my master dead? O you cockatrices and you bablatrices, that in the woods dwell: You briers and brambles, you cook’s shops and shambles, come howl and yell. With howling & screeching, with wailing and weeping, come you to lament, O Colliers of Croyden, and rustics of Royden, and fishers of Kent; For Strumbo the cobbler, the fine merry cobbler of Cathnes town: At this same stour, at this very hour, lies dead on the ground. O master, thieves, thieves, thieves. 

STRUMBO:

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