In l. 656 (cf. 666) the form ‘Staurobates’, in place of Stabrobates, proves that Greene drew from Poggio’s Latin translation of Diodorus Siculus and not from the original. The text of the play contains nothing to identify either the English or the Scottish king, and the date 1520 given in the Induction is seven years after the death of James IV at Flodden. * * * * * The two collotype plates represent A2 recto (title page) and A3 recto in the Dyce copy of the original. THE SCOTTISH Historie of Iames the fourth, slaine at _Flodden_. Entermixed 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 punctum._ [Illustration] LONDON Printed by Thomas Creede. 1598. [Illustration] THE SCOTTISH Hystorie of Iames the fourth, slaine at _Flodden_. Musicke playing within. _I. Chor._ _Enter ~After Oberṏ~, King of Fayries, an Antique, who dance about a Tombe, plac’st conueniently on the Stage, out of the which, suddainly starts vp as they daunce, ~Bohan~ a Scot, attyred like a ridstall man, from whom the Antique flyes. ~Oberon~ Manet._ _Bohan._ [Illustration] Ay say, whats thou? _Oberon._ Thy friend _Bohan_. _Bohan._ What wot I, or reck I that, whay guid man, I reck no friend, nor ay reck no foe, als 10 ene to me, git the ganging, and trouble not may whayet, or ays gar the recon me nene of thay friend, by the mary masse sall I. _Ober._ Why angrie Scot, I visit thee for loue: then what mooues thee to wroath? _Bohan._ The deele awhit reck I thy loue. For I knowe too well, that true loue tooke her flight twentie winter sence to heauen, whither till ay can, weele I wot, ay sal nere finde loue: an thou lou’st me, leaue me to my selfe. But what were those Puppits that hopt and skipt about me year whayle? 20 _Oberon._ My subiects. _Boh._ Thay subiects, whay art thou a King? _Ober._ I am. _Bohan._ The deele thou art, whay thou look’st not so big as the king of Clubs, nor so sharpe as the king of Spades, nor so faine as the king Adaymonds, be the masse ay take thee to bee the king of false harts: therfore I rid thee away, or ayse so curry your Kingdome, that yous be glad to runne to saue your life. _Ober._ Why stoycall Scot, do what thou dar’st to me, heare is my brest strike. 30 _Boh._ Thou wilt not threap me, this whiniard has gard many better mẽ to lope thẽ thou: but how now? Gos sayds what wilt not out? whay thou wich, thou deele, gads sute may whiniard. _Ober._ Why pull man: but what an twear out, how then? _Boh._ This then, thou weart best begon first: for ayl so lop thy lyms, that thouse go with half a knaues carkasse to the deele _Ober._ Draw it out, now strike foole, canst thou not?