Canutus.  A plague upon you all for arrant cowards!  Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred Doth come into the pitt with greater grace, Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes, Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight; Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke, Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself:  Even soe my bigbond Daines, adrest to fight As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven, (And like the Giants graple with the gods) At first encounter rush uppon theire foes But straight retire:  retire? nay, run awaye As men distraught with lightninge from above Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.

Edricus.  Renowned Soveraigne, doe not fret your self.  Fortune in turninge will exalt your state And change the Countenaunce of her cloudy browe, Now you must hope for better still and better And Edmond must expect still worse and worse, A lowringe morning proves a fayer daye, Fortunes ilfavord frowne shewes shee will smile On you and frowne on Ironside.

Canutus.  What telst thou mee of fortune and her frownes, Of her sower visage and her rowling stone?  Thy tongue rowles headlong into flattery.  Now by theis heavens above our wretched heades Ye are but cowards every one of you! Edmond is blest:  oh, had I but his men, I would not doute to conquer all the world In shorter time the [then] Alexander did.  But all my Daines are Braggadochios And I accurst to bee the generall Of such a stocke of fearefull runawaies.

South.  Remember you have lost Ten Thousand men, All English borne except a Thousand Daines.  Your pensive lookes will kill them that survive If thus to Choller you give libertie.

Canutus.  It weare no matter if they all weare slaine,
Then they should neaver runne awaye againe.

Uska.  My noble lord, our Cuntrymen are safe: 
In all their broyles English gainst English fight;
The Daines or none or very few are slaine.

Canutus.  It was a signe yee fledd and did not fight.
[turns towards Uskatant. 
Ist not a dishonour unto you
To see a foraingne nation fight for mee
Whenas my homebred Cuntrymen doe runne,
Leaving theire king amongest his enimies?

Edricus.  Give not such scoope to humerous discontent, Wee all are partners of your privat greefes.  Kinges are the heads, and yf the head but ache The little finger is distempered.  Wee greeve to se you greeved, which hurteth us And yet availes not to asswage your greefe.  You are the Sunne, my lo:, wee Marigolds; Whenas you shine wee spred our selves abroad And take our glory from your influence; And when you hide your face or darken yt With th’least incounter of a clowdy looke, Wee close our eies as partners of your woes, Droopinge