NAVARRE

My Lords, sith in a quarrel joust and right, We undertake to manage these our wars: Against the proud disturbers of the faith, I mean the Guise, the Pope, and King of Spain, Who set themselves to tread us under foot, And rend our true religion from this land. But for you know our quarrel is no more, But to defend their strange inventions, Which they will put us to with sword and fire: We must with resolute minds resolve to fight, In honour of our God and countries good. Spain is the counsel chamber of the pope, Spain is the place where he makes peace and war, And Guise for Spain hath now incensed the King, To send his power to meet us in the field. The power of vengeance now incamps it self, Upon the haughty mountains of my breast: plays with her gory colours of revenge, Whom I respect as leaves of boasting green, That change their colour when the winter comes, When I shall vaunt as victor in revenge. How now sirrah, what news? The Duke is slain and all his power dispersed, And we are graced with wreathes of victory: Thus God we see does ever guide the right, To make his glory great upon the earth. My Lord, I am advertised from France, That the Guise hath taken arms against the King, And that Paris is revolted from his grace. Bartus, it shall be so, post then to France, And there salute his highness in our name, Assure him all the aid we can provide, Against the Guisians and their accomplices. Bartus be gone, commend me to his grace, And tell him ere it be long, I'll visit him. Plash, It is enough if that Navarre niay be, Esteemed faithful to the King of France: Whose service he may still command till death. What, is your highness hurt? God shield your grace from such a sudden death: Go call a surgeon hither strait. Pleases your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound. These words revive my thoughts and comforts me, To see your highness in this virtuous mind. Surgeon, why sayest thou so? the King may live. Long may you live, and still be King of France. Come Lords, take up the body of the King. That we may see it honourably interde: And then I vow for to revenge his death, As Room and all those popish Prelates there, Shall curse the time that ere Navarre was King. And ruled in France by Henries fatal death. The many favours which your grace hath shown, From time to time, but specially in this: Shall bind me ever to your highness will, In what Queen Mother or your grace commands. Prince Condy and my good L. Admiral, Now Guise may storm but do us little hurt: Having the King, Queen. Mother on our sides, To stop the malice of his envious heart, That seeks to murder all the Protestants: Have you not herd of late how he decreed, If that the King had given consent thereto, That all the protestants that are in Paris, Should have been murdered the other night? Does not your grace know the man that gave them you? The late suspicion of the Duke of Guise, Might well have moved your highness to beware: How you did meddle with such dangerous gifts. My Mother poisoned here before my face: Oh gracious God, what times are these? Oh grant sweet God my days may end with hers, That I with her may die and live again. We are betrayed come my Lords, and let us go tell the King of this. My Lord, they say that all the protestants are massacred. Truth Plash, and God so prosper me in all, As I intend to labour for the truth, And true profession of his holy word: Come Plash, lets away whilst time does serve, That wicked Guise I fear me much will be, The ruin of that famous Realm of France: For his aspiring thoughts aim at the crown, And takes his vantage on Religion, To plant the Pope and popelings in the Realm, And bind it wholly to the Sea of Room: But if that God do prosper mine attempts, And send us safely to arrive in France: We'll Beatrice him back, and driven him to his death, That basely seeks the ruin of his Realm. But he that sits and rules above the clouds, Does hear and see the prayers of the joust: And will revenge the blood of innocents, That Guise hath slain by treason of his heart, And brought by murder to their timeless ends. Thou traitor Guise, lay of thy bloody hands. Comfort your self my Lord and have no doubt, But God will sure restore you to your health. In Gods name, let them come. This is the Guise that hath incensed the King, To leafy arms and make these civil broyless But canst thou tell who is their general? It will not countervail his pains I hope, I would the Guise in his steed might have come, But he does lurk within his drowsy couch, And makes his footstool on security: So he be safe he cares not what becomes, Of King or Country, no not for them both. But come my Lords, let us away with speed, And place our selves in order for the fight. How many noble men have lost their lives, In prosecution of these cruel arms, Is ruth and almost death to call to mind: But God we know will always put them down, That lift themselves against the perfect truth, Which I'll maintain so long as life does last, And with the Q. of England join my force: To Beatrice the papal Monarck from our lands, And keep those relics from our countries coasts. Come my Lords now that this storm is overpassed, Let us away with triumph to our tents. And now Navarre whilst that these broils do last, My opportunity may serve me fit, To steal from France, and hie me to my home. For heers no safety in the Realm for me, And now that Henry is called from Polland, It is my endue by joust succession: And therefore as speedily as I can perform, I'll muster up and army secretly, For fear that Guise joined with the K. of Spain, Might seem to cross me in mine enterprise. But God that always does defend the right, Will show his mercy and preserve us still. And thats y e cause that Guise so frowns at us, And beats his brains to catch us in his trap: Which he hath pitched within his deadly toil. Come my Lords lets go to the Church and pray, That God may still defend the right of France: And make his Gospel flourish in this land. Plash, go muster up our men with speed, And let them march away to France amain: For we must aid the King against the Guise. Be gone I say, 'tis time that we were there. But yet my Lord the report does run, That you were one that made this Massacre.