BOURBON

I tell thee, Rodoricke, Pembroke soldierlike Hath truly opened, what ten thousand lives Will hardly do, if war be made the Judge. And thou shalt want no gold, & so farewell. Navarre, you sprinkle me with foul reproach, And dim the lustre of our royal name, With colours of dishonour. What words can satisfy so great a wrong? Have you not with consent of all your Lords, Promised your daughter to this generous prince? True love? 'tis feigned. This Like a Sanctuary frees thy tongue, And gives thee childish liberty of speech, Which else would fawn and crouch at Burbons frown. We will not credit air. Peter, watch Rodorick, when the prince is gone, Tell him, Idem speak with him. Navarre, this setting Sun, which sees our wrong, Shall ever his morrows beams guide the proud East, View Himens rites turned to a tragic feast Have you the poison? Then here about should Peter wait for me: For this is the Pavilion of the Princess. Peter. Hold, take thy fill. Now gentle Peter, get thee unto rest: My business craves the absence of the world None but my felt and Rodoricke shall behold The secret complot that I do intend. What do I see? the majesty of heaven, Fit in a maiden slumber on the earth? What, is my Bellamira turned a goddess, Within the table of her glorious face! Me thinks, the pure extraction of all beauty Flows in abundance to my lovesick eye. Oh, Rodoricke, she is admirably fair: And sleeping, if her beauty be so rare, How will her eyes inchant me if she wake! Here, take the poison, isle not stain that face, For all the treasure of the Western Island. Wake ̄ her, Rodorick, for I want the power. What needs your Highness call for any guard, Since you are guarded with a faithful friend? Behold me, Madam, humbly on my knee, Come to renew my suit, vouchsafe me love, Or with this weapon take away my life: Much better 'twere a thousand times to die, Then live in torment of your scorching eye. You have inflamed my heart, o quench that flame, Or into cinders turn my hapless trunk: Hapless, in being vnbelou'd of you. Cannot, nor will not? zou ̄ ds, Madam, but you must. And shall. Or force that sparkling beauty from your face. Look not so fiercely, nor cry out for help: For if you do, this makes you cry your last. Sing neither words, kind letters, hearty sighs, Humble entreaty, nor a world of pain, Can move you to take pity of my love: But Tyrantlike, your beauty seeks my life, I will blot out that beauty with this juice. Thus, thus I wipe away my passion: Thus do I heal the torments of my love Thus do I ransom my enthralled eye, And by depriving of the cause of life, Kill the effect, which was a world of sorrow. Farewell, foul Bellamira, I am pleased In this revenge, that no way could be eased. Let not Navarre, my Lord, rob us of honour: Say, Burbon first shall break a Lance with him. Be sure He show thee Like hostility. It warms our Soldiers spirits & makes them fire: I had rather die, then when my blood is hight, Be awed by counsel, till it freeze Like Ice: He is no Soldier, that for fear of heat, Will suffer victory to fly the field. Rodorick, me thinks you are very peremptory. If you will needs retire, farewell my Lord. Would Rodoricke, are not we fine Polyticians, That have so quaintly wrought the King of France Unto our faction, that he threatens war, Against the almost reconcilde Navarre? Some paper, pen, and ink. Post to the Master Gunner, And bid him plant his demy culverings Against the kings pavilion. But first, bring pen and ink and paper straight. Rodoricke, thou shalt assist me in this plot. Then to your Soldiers: I will to my plot. This pen is stabbed, and it will not write, The Ink that's in the Standage does look black, This in my pen is turned as read as blood. Zounds, what art thou that threatens Burbon so? Comest thou to kill me? Why, found man, mad man, knowest thou what thou dost? Boy, I will scourge your insolence with death. O, I am slain. I'll cross it by a wily stratagem. By love to Bellamira. O could I dive into the Princes heart, By any insinuation never so base, How easily might I effect my plot, To make the Kingdom of Navarre mine own. 'Twere but a dram or so unto the son, And a small thing would send the old man hence. What, noble Rodorick, to gain a Crown, A Duke would do much. Why, to the Duke of Orleans. King me no Kings, Although we seem to be of several sides, Rodorick, we love together Like true friends. This Truce gives aim to our intention: Assist me (worthy Orleans ) to effect, First, my desired love, and next the Crown. What Peter. Why dost thou look so wildly? And 'tis most true that I love Bellamira: Now if thou art in favour of thy wench, Many a meeting thou mayest help me to, And learn beside what suitors seek her love, And whom she most affects. These things once known, It worth a Dukedom, Peter. I'll not chat with boys. Navarre, to thee I speak: thy daughters looks, Like the North Star to the Sea-tossed Mariners, Hath brought me through all dangers, made me turn Our royal Palace, to this stage of death, Our state and pleasures, to a bloody Camp, And with the strength and puissance of our force, To lift thy falling and decayed state, Even to her pristine glory, in thy quarrel Burbon hath set himself against his King, And soiled his greatness with a Traitors name. Now when our worth expected rich reward, Fair Bellamira, wonder of her time, Must Philip have her? Now blessed key, open unto my love, Do more then loving lines or words can do: My letters have been answered with disdain: Her father I have moved to gain my love, But he is frosty in my fervent suit, And now perforce I will obtain my love, Or ease her puling hatred by revenge. I, fair love, The Duke of Burbon that does honour thee. Imperial France, give Burbon leave to try The hazard of a combat with this Boaster. Follow my counsel, and immediately begin the Battle. What would I say? Philip! isle be revenged, by heaven I will, Or I will pave these plains with the dead bodies Of our deer subjects: we have sworn thy fallen, That oaths thy death, our rage thy funeral.