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But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,
Then to her owne country shee backe did returne,
THE MURDER OF THE KING OF
TATOE worth, woe worth thee, falfe Scotlande!
V For thou haft ever wrought by fleighte; The worthyest prince that ever was borne,
You hanged under a cloud by night.
The queene of France a letter wrote,
And sealed it with harte and ringe; And bade hin come Scotland within,
And shee wold marry and crowne him kinge,
To be a king is a pleasant thing,
To be a prince unto a peere:
A man may well buy gold too dcare.
When the governor of Scotland heard,
How that the worthye king was ilaine;
That in Scotland shee dare not remaine.
But she is fledd into merry England,
And here her residence hath tane;
In England now shee doth remaine.
Which turn to raine of late repent,
By course of changed windes.