Enter Ethwald talking angrily to a noble Thane.
Ethw. Nay, nay, these are excuses, noble Edmar,
Not reasons; all our northern troops ere now
Might have been ready for the field. 'Tis plain
Such backwardness from disaffection springs.
Look to it well:—if with this waining moon,
He and his followers have not join'd our standard,
I'll hold him as a traitor.
Thane. My royal Lord, be not so wroth with him,
Nor let your noble mind to dark suspicion
So quickly yield. This is the season still,
When unbraced warriours on the rushy floor
Stretch them in pleasing sloth; list'ning to tales
Of ancient crones, or merry harpers lays,
And batt'ning on the housewifes' gusty cheer:
Spring has not yet so temper'd the chill sky
That men will change their warm and shelt'ring roofs
For its cold canopy.
Ethw. O foul befal their gluttony and sloth!
Fie on't! there is no season to the brave
For war unfit. With this moon's waining light,
I will, with those who dare their king to follow,
My northern march begin.
Thane. Then faith, my Lord,
I much suspect your army will be small.
And what advantage may you well expect
From all this haste? E'en three weeks later, still
You will surprise the foe but ill prepar'd
To oppose invasion. Do then, gracious king,
