NAVARRE

My Lord of Pembroke, are your Englishmen Squadrond with ours, and ready for the charge? Then war, and give the signal through the Host. What wrong, King Lews? The Kingdom of Navarre we will acknowledge To hold of none but of the King of Kings. From whence proceeds this sudden found of peace? Comes it from me? what, from my Ferdinand? From Bellamira my sweet second self? Show me some reason (children) for this prayer. Hear me, Burbon. Their true love forced us to it. Hear our excuse. 'Twere pity to keep two such loves asunder. Daughter, you & your Ladies to your tent, And deck you richly to receive the prince. My Lord of Pembroke, happily returned: How does our soon? See where he comes himself. Speak, boy, how spedst thou with fair Katharine? Be not dismayed, at length sheele pity thee. Son, bid our Officers adorn our Court In her chief glory: for this happy night Shall a perjod to this smarting war. Your sister shall be trothplight to Prince Philip, And France and we made friends about it then. Pembroke, have you the charge to see our Captains Prepare a martial welcome to the King. I'll not be idle: since Navarre was crowned, Our heart with so much joy did never abound. Her face! Oh, what divine power hath sent this Leprosy? My sweet daughter, speak. Stay, gentle daughter, heel not injure thee. To live in discontent. My child. Spotted. How! marry a face deformed! O admirable love! Good night, sweet son. King Lews, stay with me, Be thou my comforter, isle comfort thee. Our daughter fled! when ̄ ? whither? which way? how? Lews, she did, Till savage hate that shape disfigured. She grieved to tie you to a hated bed, And therefore followed Burbon for revenge. Thou shalt have aid to compass thy revenge Poor king made wretched by thy daughters lose. What, Ferdinand? Our son slain Bellamira poisoned Navarre, tear off these hairs, and raging die. You wrong him, France. 'Tis France hath done the wrong: you have continued ̄ menst This deed of death on Pembroke & our son; And now to cover it, suggest and fain Our guiltless son a guilty ravisher: But render me their bodies. Seek her. France. What Drum is this? Burbon, that was the ruin of my Child? Summon our forces straight and charge the slave, What means the king of France? What? with a Traitor and a murderer Hear what we'll urge. And we will speak so loud, that heaven it self Shall echo with the clangor: both our children Weel raze from our remembrance, and advance No other thought, but how to plague proud France. Conjoin with Burbon, ever three Suns shall set, In the vast Kingdom of Oreanus: In a pitched field weel meet the King of France, And that false Traitor Duke. Now by Saint Denis, and our Grandsires tomb, Weel meet thee. Thou knowest not what thou sayest, to challenge us, Of any such inferior privilege. What homage is it thou requirest of us? No, King of France, my blood's as hight as thine, And this my weapon shall confirm my words. Thou son of Chivalry, let me now entreat, To know his name, for whom thou reapst this honour: Or what he was, whose body's here interde? Is it my son thou makest thy valours prize, And strivest so to enternize with thy sword? Let me embrace thee. Not alone my shield, But I will leave my heart upon his shrine. My dearest Ferdinand, I would my sighs, Or sad lamenting tears might have the power, Like Balm to quicken thy benumbed joints, Then would I drown this marble ever I went, And heat it hight with vapour of my breath. 'Tis false, and we'll maintain it with our swords Content thee, knight, I'll case thee of that labour. To morrow is expired the time of truce. France, on with thy Battalions to the plain Thou wast prepared before to pitch upon, I'll meet thee there. The Alarm sounded in the enemies Camp. Now for Navarre and Fame, stand to it, sirs. The adverse partly comes on, fight gallantly. Saint Denis for Navarre: Alarm Drums. France and his daunted forces gives us ground: Charge, charge again, and we are Conquerors. What mean these Knights? A peace, and have the vantage of the day? We'll have no peace, but what our swords can make. Follow the chase. We thought by the faint la ̄ guage of your drums, France would have known his error, and begged peace. Navarre call you his Lord! Your Trumpets guided by your fainting breath, Dehorted us from war, and sounded peace. France, 'tis you that doo't. Our son, and valours bloom, th'English Pem brook, By Lews treachery were butchered. He leagued with Burbon, that destroyed my child. This other in the battle twice to day, Made us retire, France, shall we join in league, Till we have venged our malice on these knights? And this our fame: let's mangle them with swords. Young Ferdinand my joy! Hold not our age too long in deep suspect. Art thou Ferdinand? Welcome all earthly bliss. Daughter! This Pembrooks counsel we subscribe unto. On that isle hazard all these valiant lives. Found Drums and Trumpets, make King Lews know, He makes his best friend prove his greatest Foe. A truce for three months, so it please your Highness, During which time our children shall have leave, With Drum and Trumpet to survey the Camp, To Court our daughters, and to feast themselves, As fits the sons of honourable foes: And if it prove a match between them both, There end all difference, I'll bequeathe my Crown, As a rich offering to their nuptial Rites. His anger bears him hence, young prince of France, Since to reduce our enmity to love, And thereby Like a fair and lovely Bride, To marry peace to France, we are content, To bring the sea-tossed bark of your affects, Half shipwracked with the tempest of these wars, To their desired port, as we agreed: Go to your father, and inform him thus: If personally heel view our friendly Tents, And seal these Articles of peace proposed, This night you shall be trothplight to our child. That heaven does know, and only Bellamira. Daughter, I charge thee, tell me how it came. Or what art thou presumest to stay my course? Thou mayest be guilty still for ought I know: For though I find him dead, I find not yet The Tragic manner of his hapless end. Thou mayest as well have murdered Ferdinand, As favour him hath poisoned Bellamira. Model of virtue, honoured Pembroks Earl, Rise in as deer regard as Ferdinand. O, had I Bellamira once in hold, Age would turn youth, & I should never be old. Knights, triumph in death, We are your headsmen, Kings shall stop your breath.