INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF _THE TRYALL OF CHEVALRY_.

This play was printed in 1605, and is stated on the title-page to have

been "lately acted by the right Honorable the Earle of Darby his

servants." It has not been reprinted, and copies of the old quarto are

exceedingly rare. There is an air of old-fashionedness about the diction

and the metre that would lead us to suppose the play was written several

years before the date of publication. The wearisome practice, in which

the characters so freely indulge, of speaking in the third person is

very characteristic of the earlier dramatists, notably of Greene. Yet it

is clear, from more than one passage, that the author was acquainted

with Shakespeare's historical plays. Dick Bowyer's puns on the

sentinels' names (ii. 1) were certainly suggested by Falstaff's

pleasantries with the recruits in _Henry IV_., Part II. Winstanley

absurdly ascribes the piece to William Wager, who flourished (?) when

Shakespeare was a child. If I were obliged to make a guess at the

authorship, I would name Chettle or Munday, or both. It is not

altogether improbable that the _Tryall of Chevalry_ may be the play by

Chettle and Wentworth Smith, entitled _Love Parts Friendship_, acted in

1602[108]. Bourbon and Rodorick are just such a pair of villains as

young Playnsey and Sir Robert Westford in Chettle and Day's _Blind

Beggar_. The low comedy in both pieces might well have come from the

same hand, though Dick Bowyer is certainly more amusing than the

roystering companions in the _Blind Beggar_.

I make no claim for high excellence on behalf of this unknown

playwright. The writing is at times thin and feeble, and the

versification is somewhat monotonous. But with all its faults, the

language is dramatic. The writer was a contemporary of Shakespeare, and

something of Shakespeare's spirit breathes through the pages of this

forgotten play. Take such a speech as the following, from the second

scene of the opening act:--

Must I be spokesman? _Pembrooke_ plead for love?

Whose tounge tuned to the Instruments of war

Never knew straine of fancy; on my breath

Affection never dwelt, but war and death!

But if thou lov'dst to have thy soldiers fight,

Or hearten the spent courages of men,

_Pembrooke_ could use a stile invincible.

Lov'dst thou a towne, Ide teach thee how to woo her

With words of thunder-bullets wrapt in fire,[109]

Till with thy cannon battry she relent

And humble her proud heart to stoop to thee.

Or if not this, then mount thee on a steed

Whose courage never awde an yron Bit,

And thou shalt heare me hollow to the beast

And with commanding accents master him.

This courtship Pembrooke knows, but idle love,

The sick-fac't object of an amorous brayne,

Did never clothe mine eye-balls, never taught

This toung, inurde to broyles and stratagems,

The passionate language of a troubled heart:

I am too blunt and rude for such nice service.

Yet since my friend injoynes me to this taske,

Take courage, Ile both speake, plead, woo for thee,

And when I want fit words to move her mind,

Ile draw my sword and sweare she must be kind.

One may smile at the notion of holloaing "to the beast," but the

whole passage is vigorous, and some single lines (e.g. "The passionate

language of a troubled heart") are excellent.

THE HISTORY of the tryall of CHEUALRY,

With the life and death of Caualiero _Dicke Bowyer_.

As it hath bin lately acted by the right _Honourable the Earle of Darby

his_ servants.

LONDON Printed by Simon Stafford for Nathaniel Butter, and are to be

sold at his shop in Paules Church-Yard, neere S. Austens Gate. 1605.

The Historie of the triall of Chevalry.

_Actus Primus_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter_ Lewes, _King of France_, Philip _his sonne_,

Katharina _his daughter_, Roderick _and_ Flaunders,

_with drum and colours, and soldiers at one dore:

at the other enter_ Navar, Ferdinand, Bellamira, _and,

the Earle of_ Pembroke, _and_ Burbon.

[_Lew_.] Duke _Roderick_ and my noble cozen _Flaunders_,

Are your Battalions ready for the charge?

_Rod_. Ten thousand men of Orleance I commaund

And those are bravely marshald on the playn,

Ready to be commaunded by your Highnesse.

_Flaund_. As many of the warlike brood of _Mars_

Doe call me Generall: those, my gracious Lord,

Together with my selfe I recommend

To be commaunded by your Majesty.

_Lew_. Thanks, Earle of Flaunders, Duke of Orleance, thanks.

What lets us that we charge not on the foe?

_Nav_. My Lord of Pembrooke, are your Englishmen

Squadron'd with ours and ready for the charge?

_Pem_. The French and English make one warlike body

Whereof your Highnesse is the moving head:

Or peace or warre, as pleaseth you, direct.

_Nav_. Then war and give the signal through the host.

_Lew_. Navar, Navar, submission were more meete

Then to adde bloud to wrong.

_Nav_. What wrong, King _Lewes_?

The Kingdome of Navar we will acknowledge

To hold of none but of the King of Kings.

_Lew_. Three hundred yeres prescriptions on our sides;

So long thy Ancestors by fealty

Have helde thy Kingdome of the Crowne of France.

_Pem_. Talke not of yeres, yeres limit not a Crowne;

There's no prescription to inthrall a King.

He finds it written in the Rowles of time

Navar's a Kingdome solely absolute,

And by collusion of the Kings of France,

The people speaking all one mother toung,

It hath bin wrested for a Royalty

Untruly due unto the Crowne of France.

That _Pembrook_ speaks the truth, behold my sword,

Which shall approve my words substantiall.

_Rod_. _Pembrooke_, you are too plaine in your discourse.

_Bur_. I tell thee, _Rodoricke, Pembrooke_ soldier-like

Hath truely opened what ten thousand lives

Will hardly doe if warre be made the Judge.

_Rod_. If war be Judge? Why, shallow-witted _Burbon_,

Who shall decide this difference but war?

Hath not the Judge put on his Scarlet Robe?

Is not the field prepar'd? our men in armour?

The trumpets ready for the sound of death,

And nothing hinders us but our owne words?

Leave idle parley, my dread soveraigne Lord,

And soone resolve the Duke in fire and smoke

That he maintaines a title false and forg'd,

And that _Navar_ is a usurping Lord.

_Na_. On that Ile hazzard all these valiant lives.

Sound Drums and Trumpets! make King _Lewes_ know

He makes his best friend prove his greatest foe.

_Lew_. Why pause our drums? our trumpets beat as loud!

Till the bright ayre be made a purple cloud.

_Phil_. Pause, gracious father.

_Ferd_. Noble father, pause.

Let _Ferdinand_ thy sonne so far prevayle

That peace, not war, may end this difference.

_Bel_. For _Bellamiraes_ sake abstayne from war.

_Phil_. _Philip_ thy sonne humbly desires a peace:

Let not my father sheathe his warlike sword

Within the bowels of his Countrymen.

_Kath_. Thy daughter _Katharina_ prayes the like.

_Nav_. From whence proceeds this sudden sound of peace?

Comes it from me? what? from my _Ferdinand_,

From _Bellamira_ my sweet second selfe?

_Lew_. Or rather comes it, _Lewes_, from thy soule,

Thy _Philip_ the true image of thy selfe,

Thy _Katharina_ thy heart's chiefest joy?

_Rod_. Princes, you aske you know not what your selves.

_Pem_. _Rodorick_, they aske a sweet and pleasing boone.

_Rod_. Why, they aske peace and we are set for war.

_Fer_. Tis a bad peace exceeds not a just war.

_Phil_. We will not rise from this submissive ground

Till we obtayne, if not a peace, a truce.

_Fer_. Nor shall our feet be guilty of new steps

Till I obtayne a truce from murdering war.

_Lew_. Shew me some reason (sonne) for this demand.

_Nav_. Shew me some reason (children) for this prayer.

_Fer_. I love the daughter of thine enemy:

Fayre _Katherina_ hath inthrald my heart.

_Phil_. I love the daughter of thine enemy:

Fayre _Bellamira_ hath inthrald my heart.

_Pem_. Is love the cause? then wherefore wage we war?

What matter ist who weares both Diadems,

When the succession lives in eythers heyre?

If _Ferdinand_ be crown'd king of Navar,

Fayre _Katherina_ shalbe crownd his Queene:

If _Philip_ weare the Diadem of France,

Fayre _Bellamira_, made his lovely Queene,

Swayes half the Scepter. See what heaven can doe,--

Provide for peace even in the jawes of war!

_Kath_. How sweetly doth the Earle of Pembrooke speake!

Now, trust me, I am ravisht with his voyce.

_Lew_. What says _Navar_? What, is [i]t war or peace?

_Na_. A truce for three moneths, so it please your Highnes,

During which time our children shall have leave

With Drum and Trumpet to surveigh the Campe,

To court our daughters and to feast themselves

As fits the sonnes of honourable foes.

And if it prove a match betweene them both,

There end all difference: Ile bequeath my Crowne

As a rich offering to their nuptiall Rites.

_Lew_. Here, strike the truce upon my kingly hand,

Which is as surely ratified in this

As by the testimonial of a world.

So now for three moneths space all warres surcease:

Our thoughts are wholy fixt on love and peace.

[_Exe_.

_Manent_ Rodorick _and_ Burbon.

_Rod_. Zounds, here's a truce made up by miracle!

_Burb_. Ile crosse it by a wily stratageme.

_Rod_. What stratageme?

_Bur_. By love to _Bellamira_.

O could I dive into the Prince's heart

By any insinuation ne're so base,

How easily might I effect my plot

To make the kingdome of Navarre mine owne.

'Twere but a dram or so unto the sonne,

And a small thing would send the old man hence.

What, noble _Rodorick_? to gayne a Crowne

A Duke would doe much.

_Rod_. More then poyson two.

But you, my Lord, forget your selfe too farre.

Know you to whom you have disclosde your heart?

_Bur_. Why, to the Duke of Orleance.

_Rod_. The deare friend

Of _Lewes_ the French King.

_Burb_. King me no Kings.

Although we seeme to be of severall sides,

_Rodorick_, we love together like true friends.

This Truce gives ayme to our intention:

Assist me (worthy _Orleance_) to effect

First my desired love and next the Crowne.

_Rod_. _Peter de Lions_ is your Lordships servant,

A boone companion and a lusty knave.

He is in love with _Bellamiraes_ mayd,

And by that love he may bestead your Highnesse

More then your best friends in your best designes.

Call him forth.

_Burb_. What! _Peter_!

_Enter_ Peter.

_Pet_. Here, my Lord.

_Burb_. Why dost thou looke so wildly?

_Pet_. Not with drinke

Nor yet with rage.

_Rod_. His lookes are wild with love.

_Pet_. With love, surreverence[110]? can there be a face

In all the world patcht up with eyes and lips,

A forhead and a payre of crimson cheeks,

To make me doat on, to make me looke wild?

_Rod_. Come, come, tis knowne that you love _Thomasin_.

_Pet_. Zounds they that know that know my heart & all:

I have not the power to deny it, tis most true.

_Burb_. And tis most true that I love _Bellamira_.

Now, if thou art in favor of thy wench,

Many a meeting thou mayst helpe me to

And learne besides what sutors seeke her love

And whom she most affects. These things once knowne

Twere worth a Dukedome, _Peter_.

_Pet_. Sbloud, give me

A Dukedome and Ile warrant you the knowledge

Of these things ten times o're.

_Rod_. Theres Angels for thee, _Peter_, thinke on them

And doe thy best to helpe thy master's love.--

Well howsoever I smooth it to the Duke,

My thoughts are bent on his destruction.

_Pet_. You have my heart

In your purse; Ile doe anything for you.

_Bur_. And thou shalt want no gold; and so farwel.

[_Exeunt_.

_Pet_. I cannot chuse to farewell, and have the good Angels to comfort

me; yet I am melancholy. Heeres gold to make me merry: O but (hey ho)

heres love to make me sad. To avoyd prolixity I am crost with a Sutor

that wants a piece of his toung, and that makes him come lisping home.

They call him _Cavaliero Bowyer_; he will have no nay but the wench. By

these hilts, such another swash-buckler lives not in the nyne quarters

of the world. Why, he came over with the Earle of Pembrooke, and he

limps and he limps & he devoures more French ground at two paces then

will serve _Thomasin_ at nineteene. If ever he speake French, to avoyd

prolixity, he will murder the toung. Ile provide for him; theres but

small choice. Either he shall renounce the wench or forsake his lame

legs, his lisping toung and his life to: for by S. _Denis_ I had rather

dye in a ditch then be bobd[111] of my fayre _Thomasin_.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter at one dore_ Philip _and_ Roderick, _a drummer

before them with his Drum at his back: at the other

dore_ Ferdinand _and_ Pembrooke _with their Drummes_.

_Ferd_. Whither goes royall _Philip_ thus prepard?

_Phil_. On what adventure goes Prince _Ferdinand_?

_Ferd_. To conquer all the world, fayre _Katharine_,

Whose beauty in mine eye surmounts it far.

Vertue and love conducts me to your sister.

_Phil_. On the like voyage are my fortunes bound,

I goe to winne thy sister.

_Ferd_. Some fayre Starre

On our great hopes shine fayre and debonaire.

_Pem_. Amen, sayth _Pembroke_.

_Rod_. Amen, sayth _Rodoricke_,

_Ferd_. This way my Love dwels.

_Phil_. In this ayre breathes mine.

_Both_. Farewell.

_Phil_. Prince _Ferdinand_ if these cross loves

Enjoy a wisht success, peace here shall dwell.

_Ferd_. And we be friendly Brothers.

_Phil_. True.

_Ferd_. Farewell.

[_Exeunt Philip and Rodoricke_.

_Pem_. Pity such true love, which like blessed seed

Sowne in such fertile soyle his princely brest,

By the rough stormy brow and winters hate

Of adverse parents should be timelesse nipt

And dye e're it attayne maturity.

For I have heard the Princesse whom he serves

Is hotely courted by the Duke of Burbon,

Who to effect his choyce hath in these warres

Furnisht your father with a gallant power;

His love may haply then disable _Philip_.

_Fer_. O no; my father doth affect the Prince:

Besides, my sister's heart is so combin'd

To his in perfect love that _Burbon's_ hate

Nor all the world that knot can separate.

Then sorrow not for him, but turne the streame

Of gentle pity on thy wretched friend

Within whose bosome love hath kindled fire

So ardent that the flames will bury me.

_Philip_ is throned in my sister's eyes,

But in my love disdayne and hatred lyes.

_Pem_. Doth she not pay true kindnesse with the like?

_Fer_. As stepdames orphanes, night the cleer-fac't day,

So doth she hate me and returne my woes

Like a steeld Anvil backward on my selfe.

She is all hate, yet such a lovely foe

That I must kisse the sword that wounds me so.

_Pem_. Interre these thoughts, this is her fathers tent:

Drum, give a friendly summons to the king.

_Fer_. Forbeare a while (deare _Pembroke_): by our vowes

Which in the booke of heaven are registered,

By all the rightes of friendship, by that love

Thou bear'st thy native Country, I conjure thee

This day to be the Trumpet of my worth;

To speake the passions of thy grieved friend

To _Katharine's_ ears, till those pure ivory gates,

Pearst with the volley of thy battring words,

Give way to my laments to touch her heart.

For this have I extracted thee from many,

Made thee my fellow Pilgrim to her shrine,

Knowing thy thoughts from loves Religion free:

When thy prayers fayle thy tongue may plead for me.

_Pem_. Must I be spokesman? _Pembrooke_ plead for love?

Whose tounge tuned to the Instruments of war

Never knew straine of fancy; on my breathe

Affection never dwelt, but war and death!

But if thou lov'dst to have thy soldiers fight,

Or hearten the spent courages of men,

_Pembrooke_ could use a stile invincible.

Lov'dst thou a towne, Ide teach thee how to woo her

With words of thunder-bullets wrapt in fire,[112]

Till with thy cannon battry she relent

And humble her proud heart to stoop to thee.

Or if not this, then mount thee on a steed

Whose courage never awde an yron Bit,

And thou shalt heare me hollow to the beast

And with commanding accents master him.

This courtship _Pembrooke_ knowes, but idle love,

The sick-fac't object of an amorous brayne,

Did never clothe mine eye-balls, never taught

This toung, inurde to broyles and stratagems,

The passionate language of a troubled heart:

I am too blunt and rude for such nice service.

Yet since my friend injoynes me to this taske,

Take courage, Ile both speake, plead, woo for thee,

And when I want fit words to move her mind

Ile draw my sword and sweare she must be kind.

Drummer, report our presence to the king.

_A parley and answered. Enter France, Flaunders

and attendants_.

_Lew_. Prince _Ferdinand_ and honourd English _Pembrooke_,

Now by S. _Denis_ welcome! One runne straight

And give our daughter notice of these ghests.

What, man? we know you come prepar'd to woo,

To woo, to winne: now by our sacred life

We wish in soule our daughter were your wife.

Our sonne is with your sister: faire hap wayt,

For peace or war lives in your love or hate.

Welcome once more: first weele go see your love,

After to banquet and from thence to woo.

Be merry then; weele share a friendly part,

But you shall tryumph in our daughter's heart.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter_ Katharine, _her man_ Bowyer, _and a Paynter_.

_Kath_. See that the tent be ready furnished

By this my father and those Lords are met,

Mongst whom the noble _Pembrooke_, like the Sunne,

Out-shines the borrowed glory of the rest.

And well I may compare him to the Sunne,

That but once lookt upon with his fayre shape

Hath dazled my poore sences and left me blind.

But, sirra, where's the man I bade you bring?

_Bow_. If you can judge of colours (madam) this is he. Paynter,

stand forth.

_Kath_. An earnest cause (my friend) importunes me,

Wherein I am to crave thy cunningst Arte.

_Payn_. Such as it is you may commaund, faire Princesse.

_Kath_. But are thy colours fresh, thy pensill smoothe?

Thy hand unwavering, and thy head dislodg'd

Of all unquiet harsh incumbrances?

For thou must draw proportion of those parts

Whose worth to tell my toung wants utterance.

_Payn_. Feare you not, Madam; I am well prepar'd.

_Kat_. Then hither strait with youthfull _Ferdinand_,

_Navar's_ stout sonne, there comes an English Knight,

_Pembrooke_ they call him, honourably borne.

Him (when we are in conference) thou shalt marke

And to the life set doune his counterfet.

Nor is it needful I should shew him thee!

The goodliest person in the traine, that's he.

_Bow_. Let me alone to give the Paynter destruction. I know him as well

as the Begger knowes his dish[113]: he weares a white Scarfe in his hat

and an Orange tawny feather upon his arme.

_Kath_. Foole, indirectly thou describ'st another,

Thats Prince _Navar_: _Pembrooke_ his plume is Azure

A little intermixt with spotlesse white,

Prefiguring the temper of the Sky

With whose hye motion his great mind doth move.

_Bow_. Orange tawny and Azure, all's one, all is but feather; there is

no difference I am sure but in colour.

_Kath_. Why, thats as much as may be, is it not?

_Bow_. Not so, Ile prove the contrary: You are fayre and I am foule; is

it that all the difference betweene you and I? there's another thing in

it if you marke it well.

_Kath_. I prythee peace and with thy ignorance

Draw not the Paynter likewise into errour.

Here take thy stand; thou knowst him by these markes

I lately spake of. Seeme to excell thine Arte

And I will study to requite thy paynes.

_Enter Lewes, Ferdinand, Pembrooke, Rodoricke, and Flaunders_.

_Lew_. Thus did the Greeks, when they begirt the walles

Of strong-built Troy, sometimes with friendly cheeks

Entertayne peace and spend their frollick houres

In courtly feasting of each other foe.

Welcome, young _Ferdinand_! I promise you

It cheeres my spirit we doe embrace you here:

And welcome too, brave Lord. We cannot say,

As if we were in Paris we might say,

Your viands shall be costly: but presume,

Such as the Camp affords, weele have the best.

Daughter, I prythee bid them welcome.

_Kath_. My Lord, I doe,

That with the Congy of a bended knee,

But this with my true hearts[114] loyalty.

Lords, you are welcome by my father's leave.

_Lew_. Why, now thou dost content thy father _Kate_,

When wholy unto merryment inclined

Thou answerst with like simpathy of mind.

_Ferd_. But yet her looks are haggard and obscure,

Which makes me doubtfull sheele not stoop to lure.

_Lew_. Princes, let's enter: come, Ile lead the way!

The feast is mine, you are my ghests this day.

_Ferd_. Now, _Pembrooke_, shew thy friendships true effect;

Obtayne her love, my life thou shalt protect.

[_Exeunt Lew. Ferd. Rod. & Flaund_.

_Kath_.--He stayes behind the rest. O happy houre!

Worke on (sweet Paynter) to inrich mine eye

With that which els procures my tragedy.

_Pem_. Fayre Madam, in this confluence of sweet joy,

When every one resorts unto the feast,

Me thinkes you should not thus retyre alone,

As seeming your best fare were heavy mone.

_Kath_. I am not (Sir) alone, nor do I starve

My appetite with any wil-full fast;

I have a banquet of sweet pleasing thoughts

That is more precious then the costliest feast.

_Pem_. But at your father's boord there sits a ghest

To whom the cup of _Ganimede_ will seeme

But juice of Hemlocke, and the daintiest dish

As much unsavory as the Pomice stone,

Unlesse your presence season his delight.

_Kath_. I am sorry I want skill to serve his dyet;

I have not bin instructed to such end.

_Pem_. But I will teach you (Madam) if you please.

_Kath_. Rather the party grieved first should shew

Wherein we erre, els how can we discerne

What is our fault or how we may amend?

_Pem_. That office he commits unto my toung.

_Kath_. Is he not able then to speake himselfe?

_Pem_. Yes, Madam, I have heard when _Ferdinand_,

With whom in _Padua_ I was conversant,

So spake in the assembly of the learn'd,

With such a grace and well composed phrase,

As many thought grave _Tullies_ eloquence

Flowed like a hony River from his lips.

_Kath_. He wanteth then belike sufficient courage.

_Pem_. Never liv'd Knight lesse prejudic'd in that

Then valiant _Ferdinand_, whom I have seene

Couch his stiffe[115] Launce with such dexterity

As if the god of battell had himselfe

Entered the Lists, and preassing to the midst

Of steele-composed troops like lightning fly

Till he had made a passage with his sword.

_Kath_. So puissant in his fortitude with men,

And daunted with a silly womans looks!

How can that be?

_Pem_. Yes, when you weygh the force

Of your resistlesse and controwling beauty.

It is your beauty, were his power and spirit

Ten times more hauty-ventrous then it is,

Compels it stoope in homage to your foot

As trembling Lambs when they to Lions couch.

_Kath_. 'Twas well he chose so good an Orator

To plead the imperfections of his cause.

_Pem_. I should have that opinion of my selfe

If for my sake your Grace would favour him.

_Kath_. Yes, for your sake we have endur'd his name,

And for your sake we tolerate his suite;

But, when you cease to speake, then all that prayse

You have attributed to his desert

Seemes borrowed from your selfe; you are the man

Whose eloquence compares with _Ciceroes_,

You are the man whose knightly fortitude

Lives in the world unprejudic'd of any,

You vanquish beauty and inthrall the mind

Of female weaknesse with no lesser awe

Then Indian vassayles stoop unto their Lords.

The name of _Ferdinand_ you have mista'ne.

Say tis your selfe, and then your whole discourse

Observes the perfect method that it should.

_Pem_. Should I be false and trecherous to my friend?

I am intreated but to speake for him.

_Kath_. But for your selfe would be more acceptable.

Oh pardon me, nor let immodest stayne[116]

Cleave to my brow: my love is chastely bred.

Other then _Pembrooke Katharine_ never vowes

Shall be authoriz'd in her mayden thoughts.

_Pem_. Mistake me not, I say tis _Ferdinand_

Dyes in affection to your Deity.

_Kath_. But in affection I survive to none

But onely _Pembrooke_.

_Pem_. Will you be esteem'd

A cruel murdresse of a loyall friend?

_Kath_. Will _Pembrooke_ triumph in a womans fall?

_Pem_. You anger me. Respect young _Ferdinand_.

_Kath_. You please me not to speake of _Ferdinand_.

_Pem_. Nay, then, tis time to go or wrong my friend.

Since, Madam, what I would I cannot doe,

Mine honour here bids me leave off to woo. [_Exit_.

_Kath_. Stay, _Pembrooke_, Katharine will sue to thee;

So shalt thou keepe thy fayth and loyalty.

_Bow_. Tary, sir, tary, we want the length of your nose: nay, if you

will not heare, Ile be so bold as to follow your nose. Sir, tary, tary.

[_Exit_.

_Kath_. He will not heare nor (too unkind) looke backe.

_Payn_. But, Madam, spight his heart you shall see this.

_Kath_. Give me his picture. Image far more kind

Then is the substance whence thou art deriv'd,

Which way soever I divert my selfe

Thou seemst to follow with a loving eye.

Thee will I therefore hold within my armes

As some small comfort to increasing harmes.

_Enter Ferd_.

_Ferd_.--What meanes my second selfe by this long stay?

I cannot rest till I be certified

What good or bad successe my suite returnes.

But he is gone, and in faire _Katharines_ hand

I see his picture. What may this pretend?

_Kath_. Thou hast done well indeed, in every part

Thou shewst complete and cunning workmanship;

His eye, his lip, his cheeke are rightly fram'd,

But one thing thou hast grossly over-slipt:

Where is his stubborne unrelenting heart

That lurkes in secret as his master doth,

Disdayning to regard or pity me.

_Payn_. Madam, his heart must be imagined

By the description of the outward parts.

_Kath_. O no, for then it would be tractable,

Mild and applausive as the others be.

_Ferd_. No Prince but _Pembrooke_ dwels in _Katharines_ eye.

[_Kath_] Whose that disturbs our pleasing solitude?

_Ferd_. Know you not me? my name is _Ferdinand_,

Whose faithfull love Lord _Pembrooke_ late commenct.

_Kath_. Speake then for _Pembrooke_ as he did for you

Or els your bootlesse suite will soon be cold.

_Ferd_. Why he was Orator in my behalfe.

If I should speake for him, as he for me,

Then should I breathe forth passions[117] not mine owne.--

I, I, tis so; the villaine in my name

Hath purchas'd her affection for himselfe,

And therefore was he absent from the feast,

And therefore shuns my sight and leaves behind

This counterfet to keep him still in mind.

Tis so, tis so; base Traytor, for this wronge

My sword shall cut out thy perfidious toung. [_Exit_.

_Enter Bowyer_.

_Bow_. I have runne till I sweat, sweat till my shirt cleaves to my

backe, cryed till I am hoarse, and am hoarse till I cannot cry; and

yet he will not come backe.

_Kath_. No matter, fellow, I have here a pledge

Which I will zealously devote me to.--

There's thy reward: withdraw, my father comes.

[_Exit Painter_.

_Enter Lewes_.

_Lew_. Where are these Lords? the one hath sate with me

And suddenly is risen from the boord,

The other came not at all. Daughter, saw you

The Prince or _Pembrooke_ which way they are gone?

_Kath_. Backe to their Tents, my Lord, as I suppose.

_Lew_. Back to their tents and take no leave of us?

Nay, then I feare their meaning was too smoothe

And some black Treason cover'd in their smiles.

Which we will seeke immediately to prevent.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus Secundus_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter Dicke Bowyer and soldiers, with Drum and colours_.

_Bow_. Stand, give the word along, stand.

_Lieu_. Stand there!

_Bow_. Lieutenant.

_Lieu_. Captayne.

_Bow_. Is the watch set in the King's quarter yet.

_Lieu_. An houre agoe.

_Bow_. 'Zounds what foolish Canaanits were they to run in debt to their

eyes for an houres sleepe sooner then they needed! Sergeant.

_Ser_. Anon, Sir.

_Bow_. Anon, Sir! s'hart the Rogue answers like a Drawer, but tis the

tricke of most of these Sergeants, all clincum clancum. Gods dynes[118],

I am an _Onyon_ if I had not rather serve formost in the forlorne hoope

of a battell or runne poynt blancke against the mouth of a double

charged Cannon then come under the arrests of some their pewter pessels.

Zounds, tis hotter a great deale then hell mouth and _Dives_ burning in

Sulphur: but thou art none of the genealogy of them. Where must we watch

to night?

_Serg_. In the furthest Trenches that confront the enemies campe.

_Bow_. Thats the next way to have all our throats cut.

_Lieu_. That cannot be; you know, Captain, there's a peace toward.

_Bow_. A pox a peace, it keeps our Ancient whole, but s'hart our

gaberdines go to wrack. But _futra_! tis well known since _Dick Bowyer_

came to France he hath shewed himselfe a gentleman and a Cavaliero and

sets feare at's heeles. And I could scape (a pox on it) th'other thing,

I might haps return safe and sound to England. But what remedy? al flesh

is grasse and some of us must needes be scorcht in this hote Countrey.

Lieutenant _Core_, prithee lead my Band to their quarter; and the rogues

do not as they should, cram thy selfe, good _Core_, downe their throats

and choak them. Who stands Sentronell to night, Sir?

_Sol_. That must I, Captayne.

_Bow_. You, _Rafe Nod_? zounds, soldiers, follow my discipline, say your

prayers, you are all dead men, all dust and ashes, all wormes meat.

_Lieu_. How so, Captayne?

_Bow_. Doe you make him Sentronell? s'hart heele nod[119] presently: and

he do not sleepe sitting upon the poynt of a Spanish needle, _Dicke

Bowyer's_ a very shittle-cocke. _Nod_! zounds, he is one of the nine

sleepers, a very Dormouse: & I had a pageant to present of the seven

deadly Sinnes[120], he should play Slouth; and he did not sleepe when he

should speake his part I am a Badger.

_Soul_. That's true; you have halfe the nature of a Badger, for one leg

is shorter then another.

_Bow_. Zounds, you Rogue, doe not you know that? Ile tell you: s'hart

and I lye, call me Jebuzite. Once as I was fighting in S. Georges

fields, and blind Cupid seeing me and taking me for some valiant

_Achilles_, he tooke his shaft and shot me right into the left heele;

and ever since _Dick Bowyer_ hath beene lame. But my heart is as sound

as a bell: heart of Oake, spirit, spirit! Lieutenant, discharge _Nod_

and let _Cricket_ stand Sentronell till I come.

_Lieu_. He shall, Captayne.

_Bow_. On afore! strike Drum, march soldiers, keep your place, Nod.

Lusty, my harts, for the honour of England and our brave General the

Earle of Pembrooke! [_Exeunt soldiers_.] So I have discharg'd my selfe

of these. Hot shot![121] now to my love. Some may say the tale of Venus

loving Mars is a fable, but he that is a true soldier and a Gent. as

Dick Bowyer is, & he do not love some varlet or other, zounds he is

worse then a gaping Oyster without liquor. There's a pretty sweet fac't

mother[122] that waits on the princesse that I have some mind to; but a

whorson _Architophel_, a parasite, a rogue, one whose face looks worse

then a Tailors cushen of old shreds and colours, zounds like a weavers

leg in an old ditch feeding horseleaches; & this trotter is my ryval &

loves _Thomasin_: his name is _Peter de Lions_, but s'hart (I will not

sweare neither) if I do not turne Rich. _Cor de Lion_ with him, if I do

not teare out his heart and eate it with mustard, let him say Dick

Bowyer's a Mackarell. Yonder hee comes with my property hand in hand.

Zounds! I say nothing, but ile heare what they say and determine

afterward.

_Enter Peter and Thomasin_.

_Pet_. Thomasin, you know me, I hate prolixity: in a word, my humour is

thus, I love.

_Bow_.--And I do not spoyle that humor, so--

_Pet_. Your answere compendiously & avoyd prolixity.

_Tom_. Mary muffe[123]! by Jesu I scorne to humble the least part about

me to give answere to such a trothing question: as I live it joults mine

eares worse in hearing then the princes coach on a broken cawsey.

_Pet_. _Thomasin_, leave this pace & take me with you[124]. My Lord

loves your Lady, yet I heare she is this night betrothed to the Prince

of France: I love you & shall I lose you? No: I hate prolixity; in a

word, the end is Ile mary you.

_Tho_. Prety, as God save me! What will Captaine Bowyer say to that if

he should know it?

_Bow_.--A good Rogue, by Jesu!

_Pet_. Bowyer a Captayne? a Capon, a button mould, a lame haberdine[125],

a red beard Sprat, a Yellowhammer, a bow case, a very Jackdaw with his

toung slit.

_Bow_.--Zounds, what a Philistine is this! what a dictionary of proper

names hath the Rogue got together! heart, his toung crawles as fast as

the cheese doth in Germany. Ile pearce you for this, you Lobster.

_Pet_. Bowyer? _mordu! futra_[126] for him! and that sowre crab do but

leere at thee I shall squeeze him to Vargis[127].

_Bow_. And you squeeze me I may haps grow saucy with you, you whorson

burnd Pudding pye, you drye Parsnip. Kisse me, Thomasin. So, dare you

stand to your word now and squeeze me.

_Pet_. Stumps, I challenge thee for this indignity. Bowyer, I will gyrd

my selfe with thy guts. I am a souldiour and a Captayne.

_Bow_. Captayne? s'hart, and thou hast under thy charge any other then

Pigmies I am a Gogmagog. Dost thou heare, sowgelder? and I do not with

sixe Cranes (wel marshald) overrunne thee and thy hundred and fifty, say

Dick Bowyer's a coward.

_Pet_. For that word draw.

_Tho_. Hold, Gentlemen.

_Bow_. Peace, good Thomasin, silence, sweet socket [sucket?]. Peter,

dost see this sword? this sword kild Sarlaboys, that was one Rogue: now

it shall kill thee, that's two Rogues. Whorson puttock[128], no garbage

serve you but this? have at you!

_As they fight enters Pembrooke_.

_Pem_. Who's this at enmity within our Camps?

What! Bowyer and the servant to great Burbon?

Both sheathe your weapons: by our martiall law

This act is death.

_Bow_. Ile be hangd then. Dost thou heare, noble Generall? Dicke Bowyer

knowes what belongs to service: we did not draw of any malice, by this

element of iron & steele, but to measure which of our swords were

longest.--Ile save you for once, you Sarazen, because I see youle hang

scurvily: but the next time--

_Pem_. Good Captayne Bowyer, let our English troops

Keepe a strong watch to night: my throbbing heart,

Like to a Scritchowle in the midnight houre,

Bodes some black scene of mischiefe imminent.

_Bow_. Never feare, Generall: if Julius Caesar rise up against us, e're

he do my Lord any wrong, zounds Ile be cut smaller then pot-hearbs. Ile

to the trenches: come, Thomasin.--Leere not, Lobster, lest I thump that

russeting[129] face of yours with my sword hilt till that it looke as

pyde colourd as the Rainbow. By Jesu, Ile do it, and therefore follow me

not.

[_Exeunt_.

_Pem_. Why should this loade of griefe lye on my heart

With such a ponderous waight? I know no cause,

Unlesse it be by thinking on the wrong

My friend receyves in the unmatched love

Which Katherine beares me: yet my fayth is sound,

And like a solid Rock shall check her teares.

Katharine loves me; yet, for my friends delight,

Pembrooke will hate her love and flye her sight.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Burbon, Navar, Philip, Bellamira, Rodoricke, and attendants_.

_Bur_. Navar, you sprinckle me with foule reproch

And dimme the luster of our royall name

With colours of dishonour.

_Nav_. Heare me, Burbon.

_Bur_. What words can satisfy so great a wrong?

Have you not, with consent of all your Lords,

Promis'd your daughter to this generous prince?

_Nav_. Their true love forst us to it.

_Bur_. True love? 'tis faynd.

_Phil_. Ha, Burbon!

_Bel_. Gentle Philip--

_Phil_. With my sword

Ile prove my love unfayned, thee a false Lord.

_Bur_. This like a Sanctuary frees thy toung

And gives thee childish liberty of speech,

Which els would fawne and crouch at Burbons frowne.

_Phil_. Now by St. Denis--

_Bur_. Ile not chat with boyes:

Navar, to thee I speak. Thy daughters looks,

Like the North Star to the Sea-tost Mariners,

Hath brought me through all dangers, made me turne

Our royall Palace to this stage of death,

Our state and pleasure to a bloudy Campe,

And with the strength and puissance of our force

To lift thy falling and decayed state

Even to her pristine glory. In thy quarrell,

Burbon hath set himselfe against his king

And soyl'd his greatnesse with a Traytors name,

Now when our worth expected rich reward,

Fayre Bellamira, wonder of her time,

Must Philip have her?

_Phil_. Burbon, she is mine.

_Bur_. _Mortdew_! Ile be reveng'd, by heaven I will,

Or I will pave these plaines with the dead bodies

Of our deare subjects. We have sworne thy fall:

That oathes thy death, our rage thy funerall.

_Nav_. Heare our excuse.

_Bur_. We will not credit ayre.

--Peter, watch Rodorick: when the prince is gone

Tell him Ide speake with him.

_Pet_.--Enough, tis done.

_Bur_. Navar, this setting Sun, which sees our wrong,

Shall e're his morrowes beames gui[l]de the proud East,

View _Himens_ rites turnd to a tragick feast.

[_Exit Burbon_.

_Nav_. His anger beares him hence. Young prince of France,

Since, to reduce our enmity to love

And thereby like a fayre and lovely Bryde

To mary peace to France, we are content

To bring the sea-tost barke of your affects,

Halfe shipwrackt with the tempest of these wars,

To their desired port, as we agreed,

Go to your father and informe him thus:

If personally heele view our friendly Tents

And seale these Articles of peace proposde,

This night you shall be troth-plight to our child.

_Phil_. Were it to search the furthest Northern clime

Where frosty Hyems with an ycie Mace

Strikes dead all living things, Ide find it out,

And borrowing fire from those fayre sunny eyne

Thaw Winters frost and warme that dead cold clime:

But this impose is nothing, honour'd King.

Ile to my father and conduct him hither;

For whilst my soule is parted from her sight

This earth is hell, this day a tedious night.

Come, Rodorick, you shall beare me company.

[_Exeunt Phil. Pet. & Rod_.

_Pet_. He shall not, for Ile stay him instantly.

_Nav_. 'Twere pity to keepe two such loves asunder.

Daughter, you & your Ladies to your tent

And deck you richly to receive the prince.

[_Exit Bella_.

_Enter Pemb., after him Ferd_.

My Lord of Pembrooke, happily returnd!

How doth our sonne? See where he comes himselfe.

Speake, boy: how spedst thou with fayre Katherine?

_Ferd_. I know not how.--Is trothlesse Pembrooke there?

_Nav_. Be not dismayd; at length sheele pity thee.

Sonne, bid our Officers adorne our Court

In her chiefe glory, for this happy night

Shall set a period to this smarting war.

Your sister shalbe troth-plight to Prince Philip,

And France and we made friends about it then.

Pembrooke, have you the charge to see our Captaines

Prepare a martiall welcome to the King.

Ile not be idle: since Navar was crownd

Our heart with so much joy did ne're abound.

[_Exit Navar_.

_Fer_. Nor mine with so much hate. Pembrooke, a word.

_Pem_. What wills your Grace?

_Fer_. That Pembrooke is a villayne.

Looke not so strange: I speake it; not your friend;

But hee that in his soule hath sworne thine end.

_Pem_. A villayne? and my death? I am amaz'd:

Art thou awake, or is all this a dreame.

_Fer_. A dreame of death. Meet me to morrow morning,

As thou art Pembrooke and a Gentleman,

By yon fayre River side which parts our Camps.

You know the place: come armde, and so farewell.

_Pem_. Deare friend.

_Fer_. Push! meet me.

_Pem_. Ferdinand, I will.

_Fer_. Revenge, smile on, thou shalt drink bloud thy fill.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Peter standing sentronell_.

_Pet_. This is my wayting night: tis for no good

That I stand sentronell. Well, good or ill,

I care not greatly, so I get the gold:

Therefore, to avoyd prolixity, here walke I.

Here comes the men that must reward my paine.

_Enter Burbon and Rodoricke_.

_Bur_. Have you the poyson?

_Rod_. And a strong one too.

Heere's a preservative to save your hand:

When Rodoricke fayles your Lordship, heaven shall fayle

To illuminate the world with cheereful light.

_Bur_. Then here about should Peter wayt for me,

For this is the Pavilion of the Princesse.

_Pet_. My Lord.

_Bur_. Peter.

_Pet_. Here is the key that opens to the Tent:

I stole it from my sweet heart Thomasin.

Enter without prolixity, woo and winne the Lady;

But give me gold (my Lord) and Ile to Dice.

_Bur_. Hold, take thy fill.

_Pet_. And it shall goe as fast.

_Bur_. Now, gentle Peter, get thee unto rest.

My businesse craves the absence of the world:

None but my selfe and Rodoricke shall behold

The secret complot that I doe intend.

_Pet_. I goe, my Lord. [_Exit_.

_Bur_. Now, blessed key, open unto my love,

Doe more then loving lynes or words can doe.

My letters have bin answerd with disdayne:

Her father I have mov'd to gayne my love,

But he is frosty in my fervent suite;

And now perforce I will obtayne her love

Or ease her puling hatred by revenge.

_Rod_. You stay too long: Ile help to turne the key.

_Discover her sitting in a chayre asleepe_.

_Bur_. What do I see? the majesty of heaven

Sit in a mayden slumber on the earth?

What, is my Bellamira turnd a goddesse?

Within the table of her glorious face

Methinks the pure extraction of all beauty

Flowes in abundance to my love-sick eye.

O, Rodoricke, she is admirably fayre;

And sleeping if her beauty be so rare

How will her eyes inchaunt me if she wake.

Here, take the poyson; Ile not stayne her face

For all the treasure of the Westerne Island.

_Rod_. I see no such admired perfection.

Waken her, Burbon, and this loving charme,

Which now hath led your sences prisoner,

Will vanish, and her speach, full of reproofe,

Beget a new phantasma all of hate.

Thou wilt detest her when she shall deny thee.

_Bur_. Waken her Roderick, for I want the power.

_Rod_. I hope I am disguisde sufficiently

That Bellamira cannot know my face.--

Madam, fayre Bellamira!

_Bel_. Here I am:

Who calls on Bellamira?

_Bur_. I, fayre love;

The Duke of Burbon that doth honor thee.

_Bel_. The Duke of Burbon in my Tent so late!

Where is my Gard? what, Peter, Thomasin!

_Rod_. Step to her and restrayne her lest she call:

Ile be a looker on and be unknowne.

_Bur_. What needs your Highnesse call for any Gard

Since you are garded with a faythfull frend?

Behold me, Madam, humbly on my knee

Come to renew my suite: vouchsafe me love

Or with this weapon take away my life.

Much better 'twere a thousand times to dye

Then live in torment of your scorching eye.

You have inflam'd my hearte; oh quench that flame

Or into cinders turne my haplesse truncke,

Haplesse in being unbelov'd by you.

_Bel_. My Lord of Burbon, you presume too much

On th' extremity of passion.

Have I not answerd many an idle letter

With full assurance that I cannot love?

Have I not often _viva voce_ checkt

Your courtly kindnes, frownd upon your smiles,

Usde you unkindly, all to weane your love?

And doe you still persever in your suite?

I tell thee, Burbon, this bold part of thine,

To breake into my Tent at dead of night,

Deserves severe correction, and the more

Because it brings mine honour into question.

I charge thee, as thou art a Gentleman,

Betake thee to thine own Pavilion,

And let this answere satisfie for all:

Burbon, I cannot nor I will not love thee.

_Bur_. Cannot nor will not? Zounds, Madam, but you must.

_Bel_. Must I?

_Bur_. And shall.

_Bel_ You will not force me to it?

_Bur_. Or force that sparkling beauty from your face.

Looke not so fiercely nor cry out for helpe,

For if you doe this makes you cry your last.

Seing neyther words, kind letters, hearty sighes.

Humble intreaty nor a world of payne

Can move you to take pitty of my love,

But Tyrant-like your beauty seeks my life;

I will blot out that beauty with this juice.

Thus, thus I wipe away my passions,

Thus doe I heale the torments of my love,

Thus doe I ransome my inthralled eye,

And by depriving of the cause of life

Kill th' effect, which was a world of sorrow.

Farewell, foule Bellamira; I am pleasde

In this revenge that no way could be easde. [_Exit_.

_Rod_.--Zounds, he has don't: now, Roderick, joy thy fill.

Burbon is thine, the Dukedome is thine owne,

For only he in the Inheritance

Stood as an obstacle to let my clayme.

This deed of his will take away his life:

And then let me alone to enjoy his land.

Ile steale away unseene, cause unsuspected;

I would not for the world be once detected. [_Exit_.

_Bel_. Poyson my face! oh most inhuman wretche!

Revenge more vile then to abbridge my life.

What, Thomasin! What, brother Ferdinand!

My kingly father! is there none that heares?

Then Treason, treason! let that waken you,

For capitall is this offence to me.

_Enter Navar, Pembrooke, Ferdinand and Thomasin_.

_Tho_. O Jesu! mistris, what ayles your face?

_Nav_. Her face!

_Ferd_. Tis spotted like a Panthers skin.

_Pem_. O were those spots as kindly beautiful

Then were fayre Bellamira undeform'd.

_Nav_. O what divine power hath sent this Leprosy?

_Ferd_. Say, beautious Sister.

_Pem_. Speake, fayre Bellamira.

_Nav_. My sweet daughter, speake.

_Pem_. Her silence argues a tormented spirit.

_Ferd_.--Thy countenance argues a deceitfull soule.

_Enter Lewes, Philip, Rodoricke and Flaunders_.

_Lew_. Where is Navar?

_Phil_. Where is fayre Bellamira?

_Bel_. My Philip! oh give leave to fly his sight.

_Nav_. Stay, gentle daughter; heele not injure thee.

_Lew_. Heere are the Articles concluded on.

I could not rest till I had signed them

And brought them to your Highnesse. A moneth hence

The mariage shall be fully solemnized,

So please your Majesty and your fayre daughter.

Are you content?

_Nav_. To live in discontent.

_Phil_. Methinks this royall presence hath dim lookes.

Is it because they are in the armes of night,

Which sets a leaden lustre in the eye?

Or hath some accident occoasted [sic] them

That troubles their aspect with melancholy?

Is Navar well? is Ferdinando well?

Is Pembrooke well? is Bellamira well?

0 where is Bellamira? tell me, Princes,

For now my tongue hath strooke upon her name

I feele a kind of killing extasie.

Where is she? in her Tent?

_Bel_.--Deny me father.

I would not see Prince Philip with this face.

_Phil_. Why speak you not? what, have I toucht the string

Whereon the burden of your sorrow lyes?

Father, look round about: see you my love?

Rodoricke, look round about: see you my love?

_Lew_. I see her not.

_Rod_. Nor I.

_Phil_. I say not so:

The garments that she weares mine eye should know.

What Lady's this that hides her heavenly face?

Here are no Basilisks with killing eyes:

You need not hide your beauty: sweet, look up,

Me thinks I have an interest in these lookes.

What's here? a Leper amongst Noble men?

What creatures thys? why stayes she in this place?

Oh, tis no marvell though she hide her face,

For tis infectious: let her leave the presence,

Or Leprosie will cleave unto us all.

_Bel_. O let me leave the presence, gentle father,

When Philip bids his Bellamira goe.

_Phil_. My Bellamira!

_Lew_. How? my sonnes belov'd!

_Phil_. Is this my love? was this your beauteous child?

_Nav_. My child.

_Ferd_. My sister.

_Pem_. Beauteous Bellamira.

_Nav_. Spotted.

_Ferd_. Disfigured.

_Pem_. Made a loathsome Leper.

_Rod_. How came this sudden alteration?

For she was comely, lovely, beautiful,

When the day left his Charriot to the night.

_Nav_. That heaven doth know, and onely Bellamira.

Daughter, I charge thee, tell me how it came.

_Bell_. Burbon, oh Burbon,--

_Lew_. Did he doe the deed?

_Bell_. He came into my Tent at dead of night

And rubd my face with an infectuous herbe

Because I would not graunt unto his love.

I cry'd for helpe, but none did succour me.

_Rod_.--I know he did and laugh to thinke on [i]t.

_Lew_. And he shall rue his treason.

_Phil_. Threaten not;

Leave the revenge to me whom it concernes.

Tis I am robd of a delicious looke,

A heavenly sparkling brow, a starry eye,

A countenance fayrer than Auroraes lookes

When all the East is guilded with her blush.

Tis I will be reveng'd, but not before

I have espoused my lovely Bellamira.

_Lew_. Espoused her!

_Nav_. How? marry a face deform'd!

_Ferd_. A leprous creature!

_Pem_. An infectuous mayd!

_Rod_. One whose sores are perchance incureable!

_Phil_. Be they incureable, it is my Love,

And for my sake she hath indur'd this wrong;

And should I now forsake her thus distrest

I could not merit a true Lovers name.

To shew I love her I will marry her

Before the moneth expire, nay in the morne:

Delayes, perchance, may make her think I scorne.

_Bel_. Marry with me? fetch me a looking glasse

That I may see how sweet a bride I am.

Oh I detest my selfe. Deare, hate me, too:

I am not to be maryed but to death.

Though I were Empresse of the spacious world

Ide lay my selfe and kingdome at thy feet.

Live, noble Philip, joy some happy match;

Tis my unworthinesse makes me deny thee.

_Phil_. Thinkst thou, because thy face is spotted, so

Thou art not worthy of thy Philips love?

Thy face to me was but a Mar[e]s[c]hall

To lodge thy sacred person in my mind,

Which long agoe is surely chambred there.

And now what needs an outward Harbinger?

I doe affect, not superficially:

My love extendeth further than the skin.

The inward Bellamira tis I seeke,

And unto her will Philip be espousde.

_Nav_. Oh admirable love!

_Lew_. O my deare sonne,

Thou makest me famous by thy loyalty.

_Rod_. I never heard the like.

_Pem_. Pen never writ

A worthyer Story to posterity.

_Ferd_.--Pen never writ of a more treacherous friend

Then, Pembrooke, thou hast prov'd to Ferdinand.

_Phil_. Sweet Love, prepare thee to be Philips Bryde;

For heere I sweare, as I am royall borne,

Ile marry thee before the mornings Sunne

Hath runne the third part of his glorious course.

Father, good night; deare friends, deare Love, good night:

Mariage, I hope, will make my spirits more light.

[_Exit_.

_Nav_. Good night, sweet son. King Lewes, stay with me;

Be thou my comforter, Ile comfort thee.

[_Exeunt kings_.

_Ferd_. Pembrook, remember that thou faile me not. [_Exit_.

_Pem_. O God, what may these moody lookes intend?

Me thinks, I should have better from my friend. [_Exit_.

_Bel_. Now, Bellamira, thou hast time to thinke

Upon these troublous matters. Should I suffer

So brave a Gentleman as Philip is

To wed himselfe to my unworthy selfe,

It would be counted vertue in the Prince

But I were worthy of a world of blame.

No, Philip, no; thou shalt not wrong thine honour

Nor be impeacht by Bellamiraes spots.

In some disguise Ile steale away to-night

And ne're appeare more in my Philips sight.

[_Exit_.

_Actus Tertius_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter Dicke Bowyer_.

_Bow_. There is no toyle to this walkinge of the Round. S'hart, I have

been stumbling up and downe all this night like a Brewers horse that has

ne're a good eye in his head. Tis as darke as Pitch: I can resemble our

Campe to nothing better then hell, save that in hell they are always

waking and heere the villaynes are as drowsie as swyne. Lieutenant Nod!

why you might have shot a double Cannon in his eare and never have wakt

him. I jogd and I jogd, I showted and I showted, and yet the mungrel

snorted, you might heare him to Dover: at last I dragd him by the heeles

into a ditch of water and there left the Lobster crawling. A the tother

side, Core being appoynted to stand sentynell upon the Wallounes

quarter, s'hart the Loach gets me into a Sutlers bath and there sits mee

drinking for Joanes best cap: but by this hand, and as Dicke Bowyer is a

Soldier and a Cavaliero, he shall sit in the boults for it to morrow. My

comfort is in these extremities that I brought Thomasin to her Ladies

Tent, leaving her new-come Lover to picke strawes. But, soft: _qui vou

la_?[130]

_Enter Ferdinand_.

_Ferd_. My name is Ferdinand.

_Bow_. Stand!

_Ferd_. Why, Captayne, thou dost knowe me well inough.

_Bow_. Know or not know, without the word you passe not.

_Ferd_. Soliman.

_Bow_. So, _allie, allie, Monseur_.

_Ferd_. First, tell me, sawest thou Pembrooke come this way?

_Bow_. I saw him not.

_Ferd_. Farewell. [_Exit_.

_Bow_. As much to you. Zounds, these French think to outface us with a

card of ten[131]: but, and his beard were made of brasse, Dicke Bowyer

will make him know the discipline of war. Here comes another.

_Enter Pembrooke_.

_Pem_. Who's there? Dick Bowyer?

_Bow_. Some call me so: what then?

_Pem_. Pembrooke salutes thee.

_Bow_. O good morrow, my Lord, good morrow.

_Pem_. I prythee, Captayne, sawst thou Ferdinand, Sonne to Navar, as

thou didst walke the round.

_Bow_. Even now, my Lord, he past along this way.

_Pem_. Himselfe alone? or had he company?

_Bow_. Nay, questionlesse, he was alone, my Lord.

_Pem_. Couldst thou discerne his face? how did he looke?

_Bow_. Faith, scurvily, my Lord, like a greene cheese or the inside of a

rotten Pumpian.[132]

_Pem_. There is Crownes for thee to drinke. [_Exit Pem_.

_Bow_. I thanke your Lordship. To see the difference betweene these

French Curres and our English Cavaliers! There's as much bounty in

them as there's Marchpane in a dish of Almond butter. I might have

stood heere till my teeth chatter in my head e're the tother

Launcepresado[133] would have sayd, Here, Captayn Bowyer, there's a

Cardicue[134] to wash downe melancholy. But, had I knowne as much, I

would have basted him till his bones had rattled in his skin.

_Enter Core and other Souldiers bringing in the Clowne_.

_All_. Come, sir, you shall answere your walking before our Captayne.

_Clow_. Well, sirs, take heed what you doe: I am a Princes man; if you

stay me upon the kings hye way I can lay fellowship to your charge.

_Core_. But, sirra, we can lay Treason to thine for being without the

word.

_Clow_. Without the word! O pernicious Frenchman! without the word! why,

I have call'd thee Villayne, him Rascall, this Slave, that Rogue; and am

I still without the word.

_Core_. I, sir, the word that must serve your turne, the Watch-word.

_Clow_. Fayth, y'are like to watch this twelve moneth ere you have any

other words at my hands.

_Bow_. How now, masters? what calfe are you dragging to the

slaughter-house there, ha?

_Core_. A stragler and a spy, Captayne, I pray examine him.

_Bow_. So, Lieutenant Core, you are crept from your cups at last: Ile

talke with you anon. But, sirra, to you: From whence come you?

_Clow_. I came, Sir, from the king of Fraunces campe.

_Bow_. So, what's your name?

_Clow_. My name, sir, is Bow wow.

_Bow_. S'hart, what a name's that! the Hedge-hog mocks us. Bow wow,

quotha? what kin art thou to the generation of Dogges?

_Clow_. No dog, sir: would you should know it, though I be encompast

with curres.

_Bow_. Zounds, he calls us curres! hang the hotch-potch up in a fathom

or two of match.

_Clow_. Not you, sir; I call not you so. I know you to be a very

insufficient ill-spoken Gentleman.

_Bow_. Well, sirra, whom do you serve?

_Clow_. My master, sir, is the Lady Catherine, the French king's

daughter. I have bin abroad about some businesse of hers, and am now

going backe againe.

_Bow_. An honorable Lady, sir. Let him goe; tis against the law of armes

to stay him.

_Clow_. Stand of. But, soft; I doe not know your name, sir, that my Lady

may give you thanks.

_Bow_. My name's Dick Bowyer.

_Clow_. Then, master Dicke Bowyer, after my heartie commendations, adue!

but as for the rest I shall, I say no more, I shall. [_Exit_.

_Bow_. How now, Core? how can you answer your being a tippling when you

should stand Sentinel?

_Core_. Beleeve me, Captayne, I had but a whiffe or two; for I was

passing dry.

_Bow_. Thou art alwayes dry: the whorson Maultworm has a throat like the

burning Clyme or a Glassemakers Furnace. But your remove from thence has

sav'd you from the boults. How now? what Water-Spanyell have we heere?

_Enter Nod_.

_Core_. Tis Lieutenant Nod.

_Nod_. Captayne, deride me not. I protest I came by this mischaunce by

good service, by following a spy that came to discover our army.

_Bow_. O notable Rogue! did not I find thee asleepe and threw thee into

a ditch?

_Nod_. Was't you? by this light, I took you for a spy.

_Bow_. Yet saw me not no more then a Molewarp. This is an egregious

Rogue.

_Nod_. Yes, I saw you well ynough and I did but try how you would

use me.

_Bow_. By this flesh and bloud many one that lyes in his grave was not

halfe so sencelesse. But the Watch breakes up: every one to his quarter,

away!

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Clowne_.

_Clow_. Tis true, they are gone together, and I am sent to watch Prince

Ferdinand and the Earle of Pembrooke. This way they went, but they are

got out of sight. I were very bad to be a hound, that have no better a

sent. If they were hares as they are men, I should think them squatted.

But, husht! here comes one of them.

_Enter Ferdinand_.

_Ferd_. The morne lookes red, red mornes doe threat a storme;

That storme shall light on Pembrooke or my selfe.

This is our meeting place; here runnes the streame

That parts our camps; the time consorts the place;

And (Pembrooke) if thy reputation hold,

It is thy q. to enter.

_Enter Pembrooke_.

_Clow_. Heere comes the tother; this is lucke upon lucke. Now will I run

and fetch my mistris the Lady Katharine to part their fray. [_Exit_.

_Pem_. Good end succeed my early heavynesse!

Three times my feet, as loth to guide me hither,

Have stumbled in a playne and even way.

My sword forsooke his scabbard once or twice;

Bloud from my nostrills thrice hath spowted forth,

And such a dymnesse overrunnes my sight

That I have tane a tree to bee a man

And question'd with it about serious things.

This is the place where I must meet my friend:

Yonder he stands.--Good morrow, Ferdinand.

_Ferd_. Good morrow to thy death. Draw, Pembrooke, draw,

The ground thou treadst upon must be thy grave.

_Pem_. Draw upon Ferdinand?

_Ferd_. I, upon me.

Dally not, Pembrooke; I am bent to fight

And that with thee for the best blood thou bearst.

_Pem_. You have some reason for this resolution.

_Ferd_. My will.

_Pem_. A sorry argument to kill your friend.

I must have better reason then your will

Or Ile not draw upon my Ferdinand.

Our love is older then of one dayes growth;

A yeres continuance hath united us.

Have we not made an enterchange of othes,

Sworne love to one another twenty times,

Confirmd that friendship by society,

Encreasde it with the simpathy of mind,

Making one pleasure pleasure unto both?

And shall this bond be broken upon will?

_Ferd_. Then youle not draw?

_Pem_. Yes, neerer to thy person

In friendly sort to embrace thee, Ferdinand.

_Ferd_. Thou art a coward and thou dar'st not fight.

_Pem_. Thou knowst the contrary, for we have fought

At every weapon to approve our skill.

_Ferd_. Goe to, you are a villayne and a coward,

And by the royall bloud that gave me life

Ile kill thee, Pembrooke, though thou do not draw.

_Pem_. Kill me? thou wilt not wrong thine honour so?

_Ferd_. Zounds but I will; &, traitor, take thou that.

[_Wounds him_.

_Pem_. Wound me so desperately? nay, then, Ile draw,

Not to offend but to defend my selfe.

Now I perceyve it is my blood thou seekst.

Witnesse, you heavens and all you gracious powers

That stand auspicious to this enterprise,

That Pembrooke drawes forth an unwilling sword.

_Ferd_. Why, so; now manfully defend thy selfe.

_Pem_. Another wound? then Pembrook, rowse thy spirit

And beare no longer with this haire-braynd man.

Yet (Ferdinand) resolve me of the cause

That moves thee to this unkind enterprise,

And if I satisfie thee not in words

This double wound shall please thee with my bloud;

Nay, with my sword Ile make a score of wounds

Rather then want of bloud divorce thy love.

_Ferd_. I hate thee deadly and I seeke thy life:

What other reason, Pembrook, wouldst thou have?

Prepare, prepare, in this conflict to show

Thou art a knight and canst o'recome thy foe.

_Pem_. And if I spare thee not, impute the cause

To thine owne rashnes and mine aking wounds.

_Fight, and hurt eche other; both fall downe as dead_.

_Ferd_. I hope I have slayne thee.

_Pem_. Oh I feare thy life.

How fares my Ferdinand?

_Ferd_. What? liv'st thou yet?

Then my fare is ill.

_Pem_. I am markt for death,

I feele a generall fayntnesse through my lymmes;

Expence of bloud will soone expend my life.

_Ferd_. The like debility my joynts doe feele.

_Pem_. Then we must both dye. In the latest of death

Tell me, oh tell me, whence proceeds this hate?

_Ferd_. I feare not (Pembrooke) to discover now.

Thou wert my Spokes-man unto Katherine

And treacherously thou stol'st away her heart.

Oh I can say no more, my spirits doe faynt:

Pembrooke, farewell; I have reveng'd my wrong.

_Pem_. O yet a little longer, gracious time,

Detayne his princely spirit in his brest

That I may tell him he is misse-inform'd

And purge my selfe unto my dying friend.

But death hath layd his num-cold hand upon me:

I am arrested to depart this life.

Deare Ferdinand, although thou be my death,

On thee Ile friendly breathe my latest breath.

_Enter Forrester_.

_For_. How full of pleasure is this Forrest life!

My Parke I liken to a Common wealth

In which my Bucks and Does are Citizens;

The Hunters Lodge the Court from whence is sent

Sentence of life or death as please the King;

Onely our government's a tyranny[135]

In that wee kill our subjects upon sport.

But stay; what Gentlemen do heere lye slayne?

If any sparke of life doe yet remayne

Ile helpe to fanne it with a nymble hand.

The organ of his hand doth play apace;

He is not so far spent but that with helpe

He may recover to his former state.

How is the other? I doe feel soft breath

Breake from between his lips. Oh for some ayd

To beare them to the Forrest to my Lodge,

But as I am Ile try my utmost strength

To save their lives. First seene shall be the first:

Patience and Ile returne and fetch the other.

[_Exit_.

_Enter Fisherman_.

_Fisher_. My angle-rod is broke, my sport is done,

But I will fetch my net to catch some fish;

To lose both fish and pleasure is too much.

Oh what contentment lives there in the brooke!

What pretty traines are made by cunning hands

To intrap the wily watry Citizens[136]!

But what art thou that lyest on the ground?

Sleepst thou or art thou slaine? hath breath his last?

No sparke of life appeares, yet from his eye

Me thinks I see a glymmering light breake forth,

Which, wanting strength, is like a twilight glimse.

If there be any hope to save his life

Ile try my utmost cunning. To my house,

Poore Gentleman, Ile beare thee as a ghest,

And eyther cure thy wounds or make thy grave.

[_Exit_.

_Enter Forrester, missing the other taken away,

speaks anything, and exit_.

_Enter Clowne and Katharine_.

_Clow_. Just in this circle I left the two Princes ready to draw; for I

read the whole discourse of the Combate in their red eyes.

_Kath_. Heere lye their weapons and heere flowes their bloud.

_Clow_. Have they not slayne one another and buryed themselves?

_Kath_. Peace, foole; [i]t is too sure that they are slayne.

_Clow_. O Lord, then let mee turne my selfe into a Ballad and mourne

for them?

_Kath_. Thou angrest me with jesting at my sorrow.

Hence from my sight! my heart is full of griefe

And it will breake, the burthen is so great.

_Clow_. Goe from your sight? then let me goe out of your company,

for I had as leeve leave your sight as your company. Is this my reward

for watching and watching? Oh, Mistris, doe not kill mee with

unkindnesse[137]: I shall, I shall--

_Kath_. What shall you?

_Clow_. Weepe out mine eyes and fill the holes with salt water.

_Kath_. I prythee leave me; I am not displeasd,

But fayne would vent my sorrowe from my heart.

Hold, take my purse, spend that and leave my presence.

Goe everywhere; enquire my Pembrooke out,

And if thou bringst me to his breathlesse truncke

I will reward thee with a treble gift.

_Clow_. Well, I were best bee going, now I am so fayrely offred.

Mistris, your reward hath stopt my eares and entic'de my legs to be

walking. Farewell, I will goe, God knows whither, to seeke and to finde

both and neyther. Farewell, sweet Mistris. [_Exit_.

_Kath_. O Pembrooke, let me kneele unto thy bloud:

And yet I know not whether't be thy bloud,

Save that my soule by a divine instinct

Tells me it is the treasure of thy veynes.

If thou beest dead, thou mirrour of all men,

I vow to dye with thee: this field, this grove,

Shall be my receptacle till my last;

My pillow shall be made a banke of mosse,

And what I drinke the silver brooke shall yeeld.

No other campe nor Court will Katharine have

Till fates do limit her a common grave.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Fraunce, Navar, Philip, Flaunders, Thomasin, and attendants_.

_Nav_. Our daughter fled? when? whither? which way? how?

_Tho_. I know not.

_Phil_. Bellamira, my lives joy!

Upon those pinnyons that support her flight

Hovers my heart; you beare away my soule.

Turne, turne agayn, and give this earthly frame

Essentiall power, which for thine absence dyes.

Thou art the sweet of sweets, the joy of joyes;

For thee was Philip borne. O turne agayne,

And Philip is the blessedest of men.

_Lew_. We are glad she's gone though we dissemble it.

--Sonne, bridle this affection, cease these laments:

She did not value them.

_Nav_. Lewis, she did,

Till savage hate that shape disfigured.

_Phil_. O she was worthy to be Queene of heaven;

Her beauty, e're it suffred violence,

Was like the Sunne in his Meridian Throne,

Too splendent for weake eyes to gaze upon.

She was too bright before, till being hid

Under that envious cloud, it took the place

Of a darke ground to show a lovelyer face.

That Leprosie in her seemd perfect beauty

And she did guild her imperfections o're

With vertue, which no foule calumnious breath

Could ever soyle: true vertues dye is such

That malice cannot stayne nor envy tuch.

Then say not but her worth surmounts these woes.

_Nav_. She griev'd to tye you to a hated bed

And therefore followed Burbon for revenge.

_Phil_. Bourbon! who names him? that same verball sound

Is like a thunderclap to Philips eares,

Frighting my very soule. Sure you said Burbon,

And to that prodegie you joynd revenge,

Revenge that like a shaddow followes him.

'Twas he that made me bankrout of all blisse,

Sude the divorce of that pure white and red

Which deckt my Bellamiraes lovely cheeks:

And shall he scape unpunisht?

_Lew_. Joyne your hands

And all with us sweare vengeance on the Duke.

_Phil_. Not for the world: who prosecutes his hate

On Burbon injures me; I am his foe,

And none but I will work his overthrow.

_Lew_. What meanes our sonne?

_Phil_. To hunt him for revenge.

The darkest angle of this universe

Shall not contayne him: through the bounded world

Ile prosecute his flight with ceaslesse steps,

And when long travell makes them dull or faynt,

Bayting[138] them fresh with Bellamiraes wrongs,

Like Eagles they shall cut the flaxen ayre

And in an instant bring me where he is.

_Lew_. Where goes our sonne?

_Phil_. To hell, so that in that kingdome

Fate would assertayne me to meet with Burbon.

Where ever I confront him, this shall kill him.

_Nav_. Thou shalt have ayd to compasse thy revenge.

_Phil_. No ayd but this strong arme. Farewell, farewell!

Since Bellamira hath forsooke her friend,

I seeke destruction (Burbon) and mine ende. [_Exit_.

_Lew_. Stay him: this fury will betray thy life.

_Nav_. Poore king made wretched by thy daughters losse!

_Lew_. Poore king made wretched by thy desperat sonne!

_Enter Messenger_.

_Mess_. Spend not your woes too fast, but save some teares

To dew the obsequies of your dead sonne.

_Nav_. What? Ferdinand?

_Mess_. Hee's slaine by Pembrokes hands

And Pembroke left breathles by Ferdinand.

Theire quarrell is uncertain and their bodies

By some uncivill hands convayed away,

And no inquiry can discover them.

_Nav_. Our sonne slaine? Bellamira poysoned?

Navarre, teare off these hayres and raging die.

_Enter Rodoricke_.

_Lew_. More Tragedies at hand? what newes brings Rodoricke?

_Rod_. Such as will make the hearers sencelesse truncks.

Why doth your highnes in your foe-mens tents

Revell away the time and yield your person

To the knowne malice of your enemies,

Whilst in your owne tents rapine and foule lust

Graspes your fayre daughter to dishonour her?

_Lew_. Our daughter?

_Rod_. She is slily stolen from thence,

Yet none knows whither save one Sentinell,

Who doth report he heard a wretched Lady

Exclaime false Ferdinand would ravish her.

_Lew_. That was my child, dishonor'd by thy sonne.

_Nav_. You wrong him, France.

_Lew_. Thou hast betrayed us, king,

And traynd us to a loathed festivall,

The mariage of thy staynd and leprous child,

Whilst in our absence Ferdinand unjust

Hath staind our daughters beautie with vild lust.

_Flaun_. If you remember, he & English Pembroke

Last day forsooke your Campe as discontent.

_Lew_. That proov'd their loves were fayn'd, and of set malice

He came to view our Campe, how he might act

That deed of obloquy and scape with lyfe.

_Nav_. Tis Fraunce hath done the wrong: you have commenst

This deed of death on Pembrook & our son,

And now, to cover it, suggest and fayne

Our guiltlesse sonne a guilty ravisher.

But render me their bodies.

_Lew_. Where's our Child?

_Nav_. Seeke her.

_Lew_. Seeke Ferdinand.

_Nav_. Fraunce!

_Lew_. Petty king,

For this our wrong looke to be underling.

_Nav_. What Drum is this?

_Lew_. Are we intrapt, Navar?

_Rod_. Feare not. On yonder hill, whose lofty head

Orelookes the under-valleyes, Royall Burbon,

Attended by ten thousand Souldiers,

Craves peace and faire accord with mighty Fraunce.

_Nav_. Burbon that was the ruyne of my Child!

Summon our forces straight and charge the slave.

_Lew_. What meanes the king of Fraunce?

_Rod_. To joyne with him.

_Nav_. What? with a Traytor and a murtherer?

_Lew_. He did a deed of merit and of fame,

Poysoned the Sister of a ravisher,

A Tarquin, an incestuous Tereus,

And our poore Child the wronged Philomell.

Arayne our Battailes straight and joyne with Burbon.

_Nav_. Heare what wee'le urge.

_Lew_. Speake then in warre and death:

In other termes our rage will spend no breath.

_Nav_. And we will speake so lowd that heaven it selfe

Shall echo with the clangor. Both our children

Weele race from our remembrance, and advance

No other thought but how to plague proud France.

Conjoyne with Burbon! e're three suns shall set

In the vast kingdome of Oceanus,

In a pitcht field weele meet the king of Fraunce

And that false traytor Duke.

_Lew_. Navar, thou dar'st not.

_Nav_. Now by Saynt Denis and our Grandsire's tombe

Weele meet thee.

_Lew_. Welcome. O bring valiant men,

Weel think on nought but graves & tombs till then.

[_Exeunt_.

_Rod_. Ha, ha! I laugh to see these kings at jarr.

How civill discord, like a raging floud

Swelling above her banks, shall drowne this land

Whilst Rodoricke on her ruines builds his hopes.

The king of Fraunce, through my suggestion,

Thinks Katherine his daughter ravished,

Who onely, winged with love, is fled the Campe.

Pembrooke and Ferdinand, in mutual strife,

Slayne by eche other doth confirme my words

And for revenge whets keene the two Kings swords.

[_Exit_.

_Actus Quartus_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter Pembrooke armde and the Forrester_.

_Pem_. I thank thee, Forrester, whose rough grown walks,

Wild in aspect, afford more courtesy

Then places smoother for civility.

My life, redeemd by thy industrious hand,

Remaynes in love and duty bound to thee.

_For_. Fayre Knight, prevention of sad death by health

More joyes my soule then thanks or rich reward.

But is your armour easy? sits it well?

_Pem_. I never in my life was better fitted.

This should be that unlucky fatall place

Where causlesse hate drew bloud from Ferdinand.

Behold the grasse: a purple register

Still blusheth in remembrance of our fight.

Why wither not these trees, those herbs and plants?

And every neighbour branch droup out their grief?

Poore soules, they do, and have wept out their sap.

Yet I have paid no duety to my friend.

Where is the Tombe I wild you to erect?

_For_. See, valiant knight, proportiond and set up

As well as my poore skill would suffer mee:

And heere his picture hangs.

_Pem_. You have done well:

Yon hand I see's a perfect Architect

In sorrowes building. Once more let suffice

I quite your painfull travell but with thanks.

Now leave me to my selfe, for here I vow

To spend the remnant of my haples dayes.

No knight nor Prince shall ever passe this way

Before his tongue acknowledge _Ferdinand_

The faythfullst lover and the lovingst friend

The world contaynes. Ile have his Sepulcher,

As yet but naked and ungarnished,

E're many dayes hang richer with the spoyles

And vanquisht Trophyes of proud passengers

Then was the Romans wealthy Capitoll.

So, gentle Forrester, bequeath thy prayers

In my assistance: that is all I crave.

_For_. The God of power give power unto your arme

That you may prove victorious-fortunate.

_Pem_. Farewell, kind host.

[_Exit Forester_.

And now let me embrace

This empty Monument of my lost friend.

Oh! wer't so happy to enshrine his bones

How blest should _Pembrooke_ be! but they are torne

By the fierce savadge Woolfe whose filthy mawe

Is made an unfit grave to bury him.

But, if (without offence) I may desire it,

I wish his soule from Paradise may see

How well his name is kept in memorie.

These eyes that saw him bleed have wept for him,

This heart devisde his harme hath sigh'd for him,

And now this hand, that with ungentle force

Depryv'd his life, shall with repentant service

Make treble satisfaction to his soule.

Fortune, thou dost me wrong to suffer me

So long uncombatted: I prythee send

Some stubborne knight, some passenger,

Whose stout controuling stomack will refuse

To yield to my prescription but by force.

I hate this idle rest of precious time.

_Enter Kathar_.

How now? derid'st thou my devotion, goddesse,

Thou sendst a woman to incounter me?

Henceforth Ile hold thee for a fayned name

And no disposer of my Christian hopes.

But, soft; I know that face: oh, I! tis she

Was unjust cause of all my misery.

_Kath_. Long have I wandred with unquiet mind

To find my Pembrook. That they fought, I heare;

That they were wounded both to death, I heare;

But whether cu'rde or dead I cannot heare,

Nor lives there any (if deceasde) can tell

Within what place their bodies are interr'd.

Since therefore all my travell is in vayne,

Here will I take a truce with former care.

This cursed nook was that unlucky plot

Where cursed Ferdinand did kill my love.

What knight is this? Ile question him: perhaps

He can resolve me where my Pembrooke is.

--Joy and good fortune, sir, attend your state.

_Pem_. Your wishes come too late. What seeke you,

Madam?

_Kath_. Tell me, sir knight, for so you seeme to be,

Know you this dismall place you do frequent?

Or have you heard of that unhappy fight

Was here perform'd by Pembrook and his foe?

_Pem_. Yes, Madam, I have heard of it long since

And to my grief knew both the gentlemen.

_Kath_. But can you tell me if they live or no,

Or, dead, what hand hath given them buryall?

_Pem_. Rest you assured, Madam, they are dead:

The one of them, to whom I was allyed

And neerely knit in friendship from my youth,

By me lyes buried heere: a braver knight

And truer Lover never breathd in Fraunce.

_Kath_. O tell me, is it Pembrooke? if for him

You have erected this fayre monument,

Perpetuall honour I will do your state.

_Pem_. Not only, Madam, have I built this tombe

In his memoriall, but my selfe have sworne

Continuall residence within this wood;

And for the love I bare him weare these armes

That whatsoever knight, adventurer, or other,

Making his journey this way and refusing

To do knights homage to my breathlesse friend,

By this assayling steele may be compeld.

_Kath_. Oh let me know your name, so kindly mov'd

To dignifie my Pembrooke's high deserts.

_Pem_. You did not heare me say 'twas Pembrook, Madam.

What is become of him I do not know

Nor greatly care, since he did wrong my friend

And first inkindled this dissensious brawle.

This buryed here is noble Ferdinand,

His fathers comfort and his Countryes hope.

Oh, Madam, had you seene him as I did,

Begirt with wounds that like so many mouthes

Seem'd to complayne his timelesse overthrow,

And had before bin inward with his vertues;

To thinke that nature should indure such wracke

And at one time so many precious gifts

Perish by death, would have dissolv'd your heart.

He was the very pride of fortitude,

The house of vertue, and true friendship's mirrour.

Looke on his picture: in the armes of death

When he was ready to give up the ghost,

I causde it to be drawne. If at that time,

In that extremity of bitter pangs,

He lookt so lovely, had so fresh a colour,

So quick a moving eye, so red a lip,

What was his beauty when he was in health?

See with what courage he indur'd the combat,

Smiling at death for all his tyranny.

Had death bin ought but what he was, sterne death,

He would have bin enamour'd with his looks.

_Kath_.--A certayne soft remorce

Creeps to my heart, perswades me he was true,

Loving and vertuous, but my selfe unkind

Coyly to scorne the proffer of his mind.

_Pem_. O that in Justice of her former hate

She now would hopelesse doat on Ferdinand.

Ile do the best I can to bring her on:

Despaire and madnesse fetch her off againe.--

Madam, how say you? wast not a grevious thing

So rich a Jem should lye rak't up in dust,

So sweet a flower be withred in his prime?

_Kath_. Death was a villayne for attempting it

And so was Pembrooke for effecting it.

No bloudy Scythian or inhumane Turke

But would ha trembled to ha toucht his skin

Or spilt one drop of his Heroick bloud.

_Pem_. Had not that Lady then an yron heart,

A rude ingratefull mind, a savadge spirit,

That knew this vertuous honourable Knight,

This gracious shape and unmatchd excellence,

To be intangled with her fervent love,

To serve her in all loyalty of heart,

To reverence and adore her very name,

To be content to kisse the lowly earth

Where she did set her foot; and when he sued

For grace, to scorne him, to deride his sighes,

And hold his teares and torment in contempt?

Of all that ever liv'd deserv'd she not

The worlds reproch and times perpetuall blot?

_Kath_. Heard you him ever speak of such a one?

_Pem_. Oft times, but chiefly then when he perceyv'd

His hurt was mortall and no way but death,

At every grone he cald upon her name

As if that sound were present remedy;

And when insulting death drew short his breath

And now was ready to close up his eyes,

Farewell, quoth he, where e're I find a shrine

My soule fly thou to beautious Katharine.

_Kath_. That ruthlesse mind, that iron savage heart,

So greatly loved and so little loving,

Breathes in this brest; 'twas I returnd disdaine

For deepe affection, scorne for loyalty,

And now compassionlesse shall pine my selfe.

Oh, Ferdinand, forgive me, Ferdinand:

Injoyne me any penance for that wrong,

Say I shall tread a tedious pilgrimage

To furtherest Palestine, and I will do it.

But peace, fond woman! these exclaimes are vaine:

Thy Ferdinand is dead and cannot heare,

As thou wast sometimes deafe and wouldst not heare.

_Pem_. A just reward.--Come, Madam, have you done?

Give me the picture I may hang it up.

_Kath_. Oh take it not away: since I have lost

The substance, suffer me to keep the shaddow.

Me thinks, so long as this is in my hand,

I claspe my Ferdinand between mine armes;

So long as I behold this lively forme,

So long am I refreshed by his smiles,

So long, me thinks, I heare him speak to me.

Knew I the Paynter drew this counterfeyt

I would reward him with a mynt of gold.

_Pem_. If such a pleasure you receyve by this,

I tell you, Madam, I shall shortly have

His whole proportion cut in Alabaster,

Armd as he was when he encountred here,

Which kneeling shall be set upon his tombe.

_Kath_. On that condition I will gather flowers

And once a day come straw them at his feet,

And once a day pay tribute of choyce thanks

To you the furtherer of my happinesse:

Till then I place the picture where it was.

_Enter Clowne and Bellamira_.

_Clow_. Come on, Madam; me thinks now a maske would do well. But I

perceyve your drift, I smell your policy; you think a bold face hath no

need of a black mask. Shall I tell you what you look like? A broyld

herring or a tortur'de Image made of playster worke.

_Bel_. So, sirra, you may scoffe my misery.

_Pem_. Still haunted with these women! are men vanisht?

Or what occasion leaves the Realme of Fraunce

So voyd and empty of adventurous knights?

_Clow_. Out of peradventure, Madam, the ghost of Saint George is come

out of England to see what hospitality S. Denis keeps in Fraunce.

_Pem_. Poore Bellamira, I lament thy state

But I must still suppresse my discontent.

--What are you, so deformed with lothsome spots?

And what that Anticke keeps you company?

_Clow_. Anticke; thou lyest: and thou wert a knight of ginger-bread I am

no Anticke. The whole parish where I was borne will sweare that since

the raigne of Charlemain there was not a better face bred or brought up

amongst them.

_Pem_. Away, ye russeting--

_Kath_. Have patience, Knight: how ever thus deform'd,

This Lady is the daughter of Navar.

Madam, it joyes me I have met you heere

Though much laments me of your heavy plight.

There needs no repetition of your wrong:

I know the villayne Burbon did the deed,

Whom my incensed brother will revenge.

_Bel_. For Philips sake I have been martyrd thus,

And for his sake left King and Courtly life

To entertayne a Pilgrims payneful habit.

But on what strange adventure stayes this Knight

Within this desolate forsaken wood?

_Kath_. For love of Ferdinand your princely brother

Whose hearse he gards in honorable Armes.

_Bel_. Is this my brothers Hearse; is this the place

Where I was shipwrackt of a brothers name?

Oh let me spend a loving sigh for him

And sacrifice a sisters holy rites.

For ever rest, sweet Ferdinand, in peace

Untill thy body glorified from heaven

Become immortal by thy soules returne.

_Pem_. Poore Bellamira, how I pity thee,

Yet must forbeare to comfort thy distresse.

_Clow_. Is my yong Lord buried here? I say no more, but I pray God send

him a joyful insurrection.

_Kat_. Inough, sweet Bellamira.

These leprous spots tis time they were remov'd.

Come, goe with me: since I left Aquitayne

And came acquaynted with these private walks,

It was my happy chance to meet an Hermit

Whose skill in Phisike warrants present cure

And pure refining of your poysoned bloud.

Ile bring you thither: afterward select

Delicious sweets to decke your brothers tombe.

Come, sirra, follow us.

[_Exeunt_.

_Clow_. Doe not think, Madam, that Ile forsake you. And so, sir, you

that walk in pewter vessayle, like one of the worthyes, will you be

rul'd by me?

_Pem_. Wherein?

_Clow_. To set a gyn for Woodcocks & catch your selfe first.

[_Exit_.

_Pem_. Hence, beetle-head. And, Pembrook, now bethink

How great a tyde of miseries breakes in.

First, thou art taxed with the losse of him

Whom equall with thy selfe thou holdest Deare;

Next, Bellamira is become a Leper,

Whose absence Philip carefully laments;

Then trecherous Burbon joynes himselfe with Fraunce

And both the Kings are angerly incenst;

But last, which is some comfort to the rest,

Disdaynfull Katharine wastes with fruiteless love:

Would all so minded like mishap might prove.

But by this signall there are knights at hand:

I must provide their valours to withstand.

_Enter Fraunce, Burbon, Rodoricke, Peter de Lions, at

one dore; at the other Navar, Flaunders, Dicke

Bowyer and Souldiers: Pembrooke betweene them_.

_Pem_. Stay your intended march.

_Lew_. What Peere of France

Or in the world, so haughty-resolute,

Dare breathe the word of "stay" to mighty Fraunce?

_Nav_. Or what art thou presum'st to stay my course?

_Pem_. A knight I am and to adventures bound:

This monument erected for my friend

By me is garded. If you meane to passe,

You must do homage or else fight with me.

_Lew_. Homage of me! Know I am King of France

And in subjection to no earthly powers.

_Nav_. Thou knowst not what thou sayst to challenge us

Of any such inferiour priviledge.

What homage is it thou requir'st of us?

_Pem_. First to acknowledge him lyes buried here

The faythfulst Lover and most valyant Knight

That in this time drew sword or manag'd horse.

_Bow_. And what was he? Ascapart[139] or your countreyman Gargantua,

that stuft every button of his coate with a load of hay? 'S hart, wee

have met a fellow here's all mouth, hee speakes nothing but Monarch.

Doest thou heare, King? give me leave to incounter this puckfist,[140]

and if I doe not make him cry _Peccavi_ say Dicke Bowyer's a powdered

Mackrell.

_Pet_. My bloud beginnes to boyle; I could be pleasd

To have this fellow by the eares but that

Theres many of my betters heere in place.

_Fland_. King of Navarre, let Flanders cope with him.

_Burb_. Imperiall France, give Burbon leave to try

The hazzard of a combat with this Boaster.

_Pem_. Dispatch, Navarre: one of you come forth

To enterchange a warlike blow or two.

_Lew_. First let us know what penalty thou setst

Upon thy selfe if thou be vanquished.

_Pem_. A recantation of my former wordes,

A servitude to him that conquers me;

But who soever is by me subdued

Must leave his Shield to beautifie this shrine.

_Bur_. Let not, Navar, my Lord, rob us of honor.

Say Burbon first shall breake a Launce with him.

_Rod_. Ascribe that priviledge, my Lord, to mee;

And Roderick will have death or victory.

_Lew_. No, noble Roderick; Burbon shall begin,

And as he speedes we will imploy your power.

_Pem_. Provide thee, Burbon, Ile not favour thee.

_Bur_. Be sure Ile shew thee like hostility.

_Lew_. Hold, the advantage is [up]on thy side;

The Duke of Burbon shal hang up his shield.

_Pem_. Ide rather have his life then al your shelds.

Who is next?

_Bow_. Zounds, I think he has a patten to take up all the shields ith

countrey. Hang me, if thou wantst worke heeres for Navar, the earle of

Pembrok and Cavaliero Bowier. [_Fight_.] A thousand pound to a Taylors

bodkin this fellow has a familiar; but howsomever, thou mayst thank my

lame legge. Theres my shield.

_Lew_. Now, Roderick, betake you to your taske. [_Fight_.

_Rodor_. My fortune's answerable to the rest.

_Lew_. Since all miscarrie, Fraunce will put his chaunce

Upon the hazzard of the Dice for once.

_Pem_. You are an Honorable foe, my Lord: [_Fight_.

By law of Armes you must hang up your shield.

_Lew_. I yeld to law and thy approved valour.

King of Navar, will onely you sit out?

_Nav_. No, king of Fraunce: my bloud's as hot as thine

And this my weapon shall confirme my words. [_Fight_.

_Bow_. Navar, downe too! 'S hart this fellow hath the tricke of it. If

he be not a witch or some Devill let me be slickt into a Carbinado.[141]

_Nav_. Thou sonne of Chivalrie, let me now intreate

To know his name for whome thou reapst this honor,

Or what he was whose bodie's heere interde?

_Pem_. A valiant Knight, his name yong Ferdinand,

Slayne by misfortune of a friendly hand.

_Nav_. Is it my sonne thou makst thy valours prise

And striv[e]st to eternize 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 sighes

Or sad lamenting teares might have the power

Like Balme to quicken thy benummed joynts:

Then would I drowne this marble e're I went

And heat it hote with vapour of my breath.

_Lew_. Navar, this now may testify thy wrong

In false accusing me for his remove.

_Nav_. Thou maist be guilty still for ought I know;

For though I find him dead I find not yet

The Tragick manner of his haples end.

Thou mayst as well have murdred Ferdinand

As favour him hath poysond Bellamira.

_Lew_. Injurious king, it was base Ferdinand,

On whom just heavens have shown just vengeance heere,

Ravisht my Katharine and convayed her hence

Where I shall never more behold her face.

_Nav_. Tis false, and wee'le mayntain it with our swords.

_Lew_. Tis true, and wee'le mayntain it with our swords.

_Pem_. By heaven, the toung prophanes the sacred name

Of Ferdinand with any villany,

Ile cut it out or stop his throate with bloud

And so dam in his blasphemous upbraydes.

_Nav_. Content thee, knight; Ile ease thee of that labor.

To morrow is expir'd the time of truce:

Fraunce, on with thy Battalions to the plaine

Thou wast prepar'd before to pitch upon.

Ile meet thee there.

_Lew_. And I will meet with thee.

Sound Drums and Trumpets: honord knight, farewell:

Who shall survive next morn strange newes shall tel.

[_Exeunt_.

_Pem_. Thus heady rage, blind in her rash resolve,

Drew Ferdinand and mee into the field

As now it doth these hot incensed kings.

Wer't not my vowes prohibit my desire,

To stay the inconvenience of this fight,

I would discover where their Daughters are,

To shew the error they are shrouded in:

But Time hath run a desperate course with mee

And desperate let them runne to misery.

Here comes a Straggler of their Army. Stand!

_Enter Philip_.

_Phil_. What voice is that presumes to byd me stand?

_Pem_. His that can force thee if thou wilt not stand.

_Phil_. By this bright ayre reflected on my sword,

If the whole army of Navar had said

As much to Philip, yet he would not stand.

And thou but one, how dar'st thou prefer it,

Knowing how sharp a Spurre doth pricke me on,

The death of Burbon for my Bellamire?

_Pem_. Hang up thy shield, as other knights have done,

Upon the Hearse of noble Ferdinand,

And thou mayest freely passe without controule.

_Phil_. The Hearse of Ferdinand! I honor him:

He was the brother of my dearest Love.

What's this I see? my fathers batterd shield.

The shield of Fraunce! of Flaunders! Burbons too?

It can not then impeach or prejudice

The name of Philip to consort with such,

Especially being done for Ferdinand.

There is my shield, and, Knight, but for my haste,

I would expostulate of other things:

But, after traytrous Burbon I have slayne,

Knight, looke for me, Ile visit thee agayne.

Now, Rodorick, keepe thy word, and I am blest,

But if thou fayle Ile forward with the rest. [_Exit_.

_Pem_. Successful action sit upon thy sword![142]

This net of sorrowes, I perceyve, intangles

Not only Pembrooke but the Court of France;

Navar and his associats are all toucht.

Time looke upon us and at last determine

These heart-dissevering tumults with a peace.

_Enter Ferdinand_.

_Ferd_. Since, Ferdinand, by gracious providence

Thou art recovered of thy mortall wounds,

With the new life thy body is revivde

Revive the ancient passions of thy mind.

Think on thy friend, on Pembrook take remorse,

Whose honord life thy hasty hand cut off.

This is the place, as I remember mee.

Whats heere? a Tombe? who hath prevented me

In my religious duty to my friend?

Yon Knight, I doubt not, can resolve me.

_Pem_. What art thou? stand!

_Ferd_. A Knight, and fayne would know

What sacred monument and Tombe this is.

_Pem_. His, whilst he liv'd, that of the worlds increase

Was the most loyall friend and valiant Knight;

Which thou must likewise ratifie with me

And hang thy shield up to adorne his Hearse

Or venture Combate for denying it.

_Ferd_. His name, I pray thee.

_Pem_. Ferdinand.

_Ferd_.--What's he

Acquainted with my name? belike some one

Lov'd Pembroke, and supposing (wrongfully)

Me slaine by him, to satisfie for that

Observes this honor in my memory.

Be not thou, Ferdinand, ingratefull then,

But stand for Pembroke as this Knight for thee.

_Pem_. What answer givest thou? shal I homage have?

_Ferd_. Not for his sake thou nam'st, not for Ferdinand.

There liv'd a Knight exceld his petty fame

As far as costly Pearle the coursest Pebble,--

An English Knight cald Pembroke: were his bones

Interred heere, I would confesse of him

Much more than thou requir'st, and be content

To hang both shield and sword upon his Hearse.

_Pem_. How comes this stranger by my name? Belike

He was affected unto Ferdinand,

And for his sake (hearing he did me wrong)

Covets to make amends, or meanes to prove

If I imbrace him with unfayned love.

He shall not doubt of that.--Once more I say

Twas Ferdinand was the renowned Knight

Of all the world.

_Ferd_. But I deny that saying,

Giving to Pembroke that preeminence.

_Pem_. For Ferdinand my valour will I try.

_Ferd_. In Pembrooks valour I will fight and die.

[_Discover eche other in fighting_.

_Pem_. Eyther I dreame or this is Ferdinand.

_Ferd_. My sight deludes me or stout Pembroke lyves.

_Pem_. Thrice happy hour[143]! I do embrace my friend.

_Ferd_. Welcome, oh welcome, Pembrok, to myne armes,

Whom I imagined death had tane from me.

_Pem_. The like did I by Princely Ferdinand,

But that he lives my soule confounds with joy.

_Ferd_. Tell me, deare friend, since our unlucky fight

Have you heard ought of my disdainfull Love?

_Pem_. Of her and all the rest. Her Father lives:

This is his shield and this is great Navars,

This Rodoricks, [this] the Duke of Orleance,

And this malicious Burbons: all the which

I forc't from them to beautifie thy shrine.

But tis of Katharine thou desir'st to heare:

She likewise hath bin here; her flinty heart,

So much before inclined to cruelty,

Now waxeth tender: she no sooner saw

Thy picture here, but by heavens providence,

Or how I know not, she so doats on it

As I supposde she would a dyed for love.

_Ferd_. Has then my shaddow and supposed death

Brought that to passe my living substance could not?

_Pem_. It hath, and never Lady more enamour'd

Then now is Katharine of her Ferdinand.

I told her, and no more then truth I told,

A cunning Carver had cut out thy shape.

And whole proportion in white alablaster,

Which I intended here should be set up.

She earnestly entreated she might have

A sight of it and dayly be permitted

To deck thy tombe and statue with sweet flowers:

Shee's but even now departed to that end,

And will (I know) be quickly here agayne.

Now, for assurance I dissemble not,

Instead of thy resemblance cut in stone

Kneele here, thyself, and heare her pitious mone.

_Ferd_. Content! I hold your counsell for the best;

Weele once conclude our sorrowes with a jest.

_Pem_. Soft there's a cushen: nay, and you must be bare

And hold your hands up, as the maner is.

_Ferd_. What if I held a book as if I pray'd?

_Pem_. Twere best of all; and, now I think upon'

Here is a booke: so, keepe your countenance;

You must imagine now you are transformed.

Yonder she comes; in any case stir not.

_Enter Katharine_.

_Kath_. I feare I have detracted time too long

In my determinde service to my Love;

But Ile redeeme my fault with double care.

See where his statue is set up: kind knight,

For ever Katharine will record thy truth.

_Pem_. How say you, Madam; ist not very like him!

_Kath_. As like as if it were himselfe indeed.

And would to God my prayers might be heard,

That, as the image of Pigmalion once,

Life might descend into this sencelesse stone:

But that was faynd, as my desire is fond;

Relentlesse Death withholds my Ferdinand,

And no intreaty may recover him.

In token, then, I do repent my scorne

That I was cruell to so kind a friend,

Thou, the presenter of his absent person,

Receive these sweets; thy temples be adornd

With this fresh garland; thy white ivory hand

Boast of this ring, which, if thou wert alive,

Should bind our faythes up in a nuptiall knot:

But, for thou canst not be reviv'd agayne,

He dwell with thee in death, and, as my spirit

Mounts to the happy mansion of thy spirit,

So, to accompany thy shaddow here,

Ile turne my body to a shaddow, too,

And, kneeling thus, confront thy silent lookes

With my sad looks. This is the Instrument:

Now, Ferdinand, behold thy Katharine comes.

_Ferd_. And she is welcome unto Ferdinand.

_Pem_. Ile play the dark for both and say Amen.

Nay, muse not, madam: tis no sencelesse Image,

But the true essence of your wished Love.

_Kath_. I am asham'd to looke him in the face.

_Ferd_. Hide not those splendant lights: hereafter be

A constant wife; it shall suffice for me.

_Kath_. Heaven cast her off if Katharine prove not so.

_Pem_. Of that no more: now let us haste from hence

To quiet the dissension lately sprung

Betweene your parents. Philip, likewise gone

To be reveng'd on Burbons trechery,

Perhaps may stand in need of friendly ayd.

To him and them our vowes must next be payd.

_Ferd_. What Pembrook counsels we consent unto.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus Quintus_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter Rodoricke and Philip_.

_Rod_. Now whilest our Armies wearied with the heat

That the bright sunne casts from his midday throne,

Abstayne from bloudy intercourse of war,

He lead thee, Philip, unto Burbons Tent.

_Phil_. Rodoricke, thou highly favourest me in this

And doubt not, if my complot take effect,

Ile make thee Duke of Burbon.

_Enter Lewes, Flaunders, and Burbon_.

_Rod_. Stay your speach;

Heere comes King Lewis.

_Phil_. They can not know me, I am so disguisde.

_Bur_. Follow my counsayle and immediately

Begin the Battayle.

_Lew_. Why, the heat's [so] great

It burnes [us] in our Armour as we march.

_Flaun_. It burnes the enemy as well as wee.

_Bur_. It warmes our Souldiers spirits and makes them fire,

I had rather dye then, when my bloud is hot,

Be awde by counsell till it freeze like Ice:

He is no Souldier that for feare of heat

Will suffer victory to fly the field.

_Rod_. My Lord of Burbon, ye are more hot then wise.

_Bur_. Rodorick, me thinkes you are very peremptory.

_Rod_. It is in zeale of the generall good.

Go to your Tent, refresh your unscorcht[144] lymmes;

There draw your battels modell, and as soone

As the coole winds have fand the burning Sunne

And made it tractable for travaylers,

Arme you and mount upon your barbed Steed,

Lead foorth your Souldiers and in good array

Charge bravely on the Army of our foe.

_Lew_. The Duke of Orleance hath counseld well.

Ile in and recreate me in my tent.

Farewell, my Lord: when you resolve to fight,

Proclayme your meaning by a Canons mouth

And with a volley I will answere you.

[_Exeunt Lewes and Flauuders_.

_Bur_. If you will needs retyre, farewell, my Lord.

Ha, Rodoricke, are not we fine Polyticians

That have so quaintly wrought the king of Fraunce

Unto our faction that he threatens warre

Against the almost reconcilde Navar?

_Rod_. But this is nothing to the actes weele do.

Come, come, my Lord, you trifle time with words:

Sit downe, sit downe, and make your warlike plot.--

But wherefore stand these murderous Glaves so nye?

_Phil_.--Touch them not, Roderick; prythee let them stand.

_Bur_. Some paper, pen, and incke.

_Enter Peter_.

_Pet_. My Lord.

_Bur_. Post to the Master Gunner

And bid him plant his demy culverings

Against the kings pavilion.

_Peter_. Presently.

_Bur_. But first bring pen and incke and paper straight.

[_Peter sets pen, ink, &c., before Burbon, and exit_[145]

Rodoricke, thou shalt assist mee in this plot.

_Rod_. Do it your selfe, my Lord; I have a charge

Of souldiers that are very mutinous,

And long I dare not stay for feare my absence

Be cause of their revolt unto Navar.

_Bur_. Then to your Souldiers: I will to my plot.

_Phil_.--Away, my Lord, leave me unto the Duke.

_Rod_.--Kill you the Duke (and after Ile kill thee).

[_Exit Rod_.

_Bur_. This pen is stabbed and it will not write:

The incke that's in the standage[146] doth looke blacke,

This in my pen is turnd as red as bloud.

_Phil_. The reason that the platforme[147] you would make

Must by this hand be written with thy bloud.

_Bur_. Zounds, what art thou that threatens Burbon so?

_Phil_. One that's as desperat-carelesse of his life

As thou art timorous and fearst to dye.

_Bur_. Comest thou to kill me?

_Phil_. If I should say no,

This weapon would condemne me, which I seyz'd

Of purpose, Burbon, to bereave thy life.

_Bur_. Why, fond man, mad man, know'st thou what thou doest?

_Phil_. I know it, Burbon, and I know besides

What thou wouldst say to daunt my resolution.

_Bur_. What would I say?

_Phil_. Why, that this place is death,

As being thy Tent, environ'd with thy slaves,

Where if I kill thee tis impossible

To scape with life: this, Burbon, thou wouldst say.

But Philip is not be mov'd with words.

_Bur_. Philip!

_Phil_. I, Philip, Bellamiraes Love,

Whose beauty, villayne, thou hast poysoned;

For which I have vow'd thy death, and thou shall dye.

Therefore betake you to what fence you will;

Amongst this bundle chuse one weapon forth

And like a worthy Duke prepare thy selfe

In knightly manner to defend thy life;

For I will fight with thee and kill thee, too,

Or thou shalt give an end unto my life.

But if thou call unto thy slaves for helpe,

Burbon, my sword shall nayle thee to the wall.

And thinke Prince Philip is a Prince indeed

To give thee this advantage for thy life.

_Bur_. Boy, I will scourge your insolence with death.

_Phil_. Come on. _Fight, and kill Burbon_.

_Bur_. Oh, I am slayne.

[_Enter Rodorick_.]

_Rod_. Murder! murder! Burbon the Duke is slayne!

_Phil_. Peace, Roderick, I am Philip thy deare friend.

_Rod_. Thou art a counterfet, I know thee not.

_Phil_. Didst not thou guide me unto Burbons Tent?

_Rod_. I guide thee to the Tent? I know thee not.

What! murder! ho! will no man heare my voyce?

_Enter Peter and 2 or 3 souldiers_.

_Pet_. Yes, here are those [that] can heare well ynough.

Where is the murdered and the murderer?

_Rod_. Peter, behold thy masters breathlesse truncke,

And there's Prince Philip that hath murdered him.

_Pet_. To avoyd prolixity Ile kill him; yet first give me leave to

weepe for my master.

_Rod_. First seyze the murderer and after weepe.

_Phil_. He that first ventures to attach my life

Let him be sure he hath a life to spare,

For I will send one breathlesse to the grave.

_Pet_. You that have nyne lives assault the gentleman.

_Rod_. What, peasants! dare you not attach the slave?

Ile rayse the whole Campe but Ile apprehend him.

Alarum, drummes! Souldiers, incircle him,

And eyther apprehend or slay the wretch.

_Enter Pembrooke and Ferdinand_.

_Pem_. Tis princely Philip. Helpe to rescue him.

_Rod_. What slaves are these that dare oppose themselves

In rescue of a murderer 'gainst an Host?

_Ferd_. Such as will make thee, Roderick, fly for life.

_Pet_. Zounds, men are mortall; to avoyd prolixity,

My lord of Orleance, your best course is flying,

And therein I will be your follower.

_Rod_. Fly before three, and be thus strong? 'Twere madnesse.

_Pem_. We trifle time; let's drive them from the Tent.

_Alarum and drive away Peter and Rodoricke_.

_Pem_. Live, worthy Philip; Pembrooke bids thee live,

That did suspect this complot at the tombe

When in the honour of Prince Ferdinand

You did resigne your shield.

_Phil_. Th[e] Earle of Pembrooke!

_Ferd_. And Ferdinand that loves thee as his soule.

_Phil_. Two lives I owe my starres beside mine owne

In sending me two friends of such import.

Durst you adventure thorow the enemies Campe

And put your lives in danger to save mine?

_Pem_. The rumour of the Duke of Burbons death

Hath so possest the Campe with admiration

That they regardlesse suffer all to passe.

Only this Roderick wakens them a little,

But cannot weane them from their wondring minds.

_Phil_. That Roderick is a perfect villayne turn'd;

For though he guided me unto his Tent

And gave his liking that the Duke should dye,

Yet how the villayne cryed to murder me!

But come: in this confusion let's be gone,

Tis dangerous to abide in Burbons Tent.

Rodoricke, thou art the next must taste of death;

That taske once done, we shall with little payne

Our angry fathers reconcile agayne.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Alarum. Enter Navar, Bowyer, Nod, Core, Souldiers,

[with] drum and colours_.

_Nav_. The Alarum sounded in the enemies Campe;

Now for Navar and Fame stand to it, sirs.

_Bow_. Hart, stand to it? heere's some of us knowes how to runne away

and they be put to it. Though wee have left our brave Generall, the

Earle of Pembrooke, yet here's Cavaliero Bowyer, Core and Nod, by Jesu,

sound cards: and Mahound and Termagant[148] come against us, weele fight

with them. Couragio, my hearts! S. George for the honour of England!

_Nav_. The adverse part comes on; fight gallantly.

_Enter Fraunce, Flaunders and Souldiers, with Drum and Colours_.

_Lew_. Is false Navar so thirsty to drinke bloud

That he must joyne the Squadron of his troops

Before the signall of the battel's given?

Belike you thought to take us unpreparde.

No, king: our wrong hangs like a watch before us,

And makes us nomber every short-lyvd minute

Till your lives answere for our Daughters death.

Charge, brave spirits! Saint Denis now for Fraunce!

_Nav_. Saint Denis for Navar! Alarum, Drums!

_Alarum: they fight, Fraunce put to the worst; enter Rodorike

and Peter; the fight continued, and Navar driven in_.

_Lew_. Navar and his weake forces make retire;

Pursue them, Sirs, the victorie is ours.

_Rod_. Be like starv'd Lions 'mongst a heard of Beasts,

Ruthelesse and bloudy; slaughter[149] all you meete

Till proud Navar be slayn or kisse your feet.

Saint Denis! and cry murder through the host!

_Alarum. Enter Pembrooke, Ferdinand and Philip_.

_Pem_. He that steps forward with a murdring thought,

Marries him selfe to death. Fraunce, cease the fight:

They are Frenchmen you pursue, Frenchmen you should save:

Dig not for Traytors love your subjects graves.

_Lew_. What franticke knights are those that dare oppose

Their single force against our multitudes?

_Phil_. Those that wish you and Fraunce bright fames encrease,

So you would chase hence war and welcome peace.

_Rod_. That was the Traytor that slew royall Burbon.

_Pet_. Downe with the villaynes.

_Rod_. Souldiers, seyze on him

And then pursue Navar with sudden death.

_Ferd_. Ere the least hayre fall from his kingly head,

Rodorick, thy base trunck shall be butchered.

_Pem_. Will you accept of peace?

_Lew_. Follow Navar!

_Pet_. Downe with that murderer!

_Fer_. Zounds, then, in spight

Weele save Navar and chase you hence in fight.

_All_. Ha, ha!

_Pem_. Nay, smile not; though our number's few

Our great hearts tell us we shall conquere you.

Alarum and S. George!

_Alarum: they fight. Enter Navar and his forces,

Fraunce chaste away_.

_Nav_. Fraunce and his daunted forces gives us ground.

Charge, charge agayne, and we are Conquerours.

_Phil_. Stand or ne're stirre agayne.

_Nav_. What meane these knights?

_Pem_. To stop your passage this way, great Navar.

I charge thee by the duty of a king,

Thy love to Justice and thy subjects lives,

You sound retreat and make a peace with Fraunce.

_Nav_. A peace! and have the vantage of the day!

_Bow_. That's a tricke by Jesu to mocke an Ape: wee'le none of that.

_Nav_. Wee'le have no peace but what our swords can make.

Follow the chase.

_Phil_. Are you growne insolent?

For one light puffe of fortune proves it so?

Nay, then our swords turn to your overthrow.

_Alarum: they fight and drive in Navar_.

_Fer_. That was my father that you fought against.

_Phil_. You did as much to mine.

_Pem_. Princes, agree:

Force cannot end this war, but policy.

Therefore disperse your selves, and let our Squires

With Trumpets in their mouthes sound lowd retreat

Where you perceive the fight most violent.

The strangenesse of which act will straight amaze;

When they shall heare both peace and war denounc'd,

And one selfe instant, they will soone retire

To know the issue. Princes, fall to worke,

Tis worke of charity; 'twould doe me good

If we could end this battell without bloud.

_Fer_. I hope we shall: farewell, Ile to my charge.

_Pem_. The like will Pembrooke.

_Phil_. Philip is not last:

Yet, though I seeke the safety of my friends,

Rodorick shall lose his bloud e're this fight ends.

_Alarum; excursions. Enter Peter leading Thomasin_.

_Pet_. Struggle not, strive not; your sweete heart Bowyer cannot save

you. Without prolixity you must goe with mee.

_Tho_. Helpe, helpe.

_Pet_. And the God of warre come in thy defence my humour is to kill him.

Come away.

_Enter Bowyer_.

_Bow_. By Jesu, and you go this way you must pay custom. Zounds, you

pick-hatch[150] Cavaliero petticote-monger, can you find time to be

catching _Thomasin_? come, deliver, or by Zenacrib & the life of

king Charlimayne, Ile thrash your coxcombe as they doe hennes at

Shrovetyde[151]. No, will you not doe, you Tan-fat? Zounds, then have

at you.

_They fight, Bowyer hath the wench, rescued by Fraunce,

recovered by Navar. Philip meetes Rodorick, rescued by

Peter. Retreat is sounded, the enemies begin to retire,

Rodorick chased by Philip. Enter at severall doores,

after retreate sounded, Pembrooke and Ferdinand_.

_Ferd_. Are the Kings severd? will they bow to peace?

_Pemb_. Peace is a welcome ghest unto their hearts,

But Rodoricke (like a greedy envious churle

Fearing to spend his wealth) still keeps them backe.

Tis he exasperates the Princes hate,

And when our Trumpets call them to retyre

He with warres clangor sets them on agayne.

Unless he be remoov'd our labour's lost.

_Ferd_. It shall not, for Ile seek him through the Host

And with this sword pare off the Traytors head.

_Pem_. Doe, and Ile scoure these ranks: if Pembroks eye

Encounters his, he meets his Tragedy.

_Alarum. Enter Philip pursuing Rodoricke_.

_Phil_. Stay, warlike friends, and ayd me in revenge.

_Ferd_. That is Rodoricke.

_Pem_. Heere's the Traytor, strike him downe.

_Phil_. Who lifts his arme at him strikes at my brest.

_Rod_. Why have you thus ring'd me about with swords?

_Phil_. To shew thee thou must dye.

_Rod_. What have I done

That thus you labour my destruction?

_Pem_. Thou wer't a party in all Burbons wrongs.

_Ferd_. Falsely term'd Ferdinand a Ravisher.

_Pem_. Set discord 'twixt these kings.

_Phil_. Practised my death.

_Pem_. Villayne for this our swords shall stop thy breath.

_Ferd_. Stand not to argue, let's all runne at him.

_Phil_. Now as you love my love or prize mine honour,

Touch not the Traytor; he is Philips foe,

And none but I must work his overthrow.

Thrice in the battell he was rescued from me,

But now hee's fallen into the Lyons paw

From whence the whole world cannot ransome him.

Preservers of my life, heroick friends,

Be you my safety; keepe the souldyers off,

Whilst in the midst by fayre and equall fight

I send this Traytor to eternal night.

_Ferd_. By heaven agreed.

_Pem_. Heere Pembrooke takes his stand:

Come Fraunce and all the world, I will not start

Till Philips knightly sword pierce Rodoricks hart.

_Rod_. Accurst, I am betrayd, incompast round;

Now lyfe and hope and state must kisse the ground.

_Phil_. Rodorick, thou seest, all wayes are stopt to flie;

Be desperat then, fight bravely, and so die.

_Alarum: they fight. Enter to Pembrooke Navar,

Bowyer, and Souldiers: to Ferdinand Fraunce,

Flaunders, and Souldiers: they fight and keepe

them backe. Rodoricke would scape; still kept in

the midst, and kild by Philip_.

_Phil_. Now are his trecheries repaid with death.

Philip and Pembrooke, sound your retreats

With better hope; in him all hatred ends:

The kings will now love peace and soone be friends.

_Exeunt. Enter Peter wounded, Bowyer following_.

_Bow_. Zounds, never runne for the matter; a scratcht face can not serve

your turne, we must have bloudy noses. Stand on your gard; and I do not

make haggasse puddings of your guttes, Ile never dominier in the long

Alleyes agayne.

_Pet_. Cymnel, Ile crack you for this. Ile teach you to deale with Peter

de Lions, and that without prolixitie.

_Bow_. Do; have at you in earnest. S. George, you rogue!

_Alarum; fight. Bowyer kills him_.

_Bow_. So, there's for your prolixities, there's for Thomasin. The

Thornbackly slave! and he were made of anything but gristles, I am a

pumpian. 'Shart he had no mettle in him; yet how the villayne

crak't[152] and dominierd when he was living: ah, sirra, never gryn for

the matter, tis Captayne Bowyer that speaks it. When thou meetst the

great Devill, commend me to him and say I sent him thee for a new years

gift. And there's one Sarlaboys to, as arrant a blood-sucker and as

notable a coward as ever drew weapon in a bawdy house, he carryes my

marke about him. If Dicke Bowyer be not writ a bountifull benefactor in

hell for my good deeds in sending thither such Cannibals, I am a rabbit

sucker[153]: yet I scorne to vaunt of my deeds, too. They sound a

retreat. Farewell, Peter, and learne hereafter what it is to be rivall

to an English gentleman, Cavaliero Bowyer, one of the nine worthyes.

_A retreyt. Enter at one dore Fraunce, Flaunders, and

Souldiers: at the other dore Navar, Bowyer and Souldiers_.

_Lew_. Navar, why have you sounded a retreyt?

Will your proud heart decline and call us lord?

_Nav_. We thought by the faynt language of your drums

Fraunce would have knowne his errour and beg'd peace.

_Lew_. Fraunce beg a peace!

_Nav_. Navar call you his Lord!

_Flan_. Why did you cease the fight and sound retreat.

_Bow_. Not we by this beard, not we by the life of Pharo[154].

_Nav_. Your Trumpets, guided by your faynting breath,

Dehorted us from war and sounded peace.

_Lew_. Navar derides us.

_Nav_. Fraunce, tis you that doo't.

_Lew_. Sound war and bravely let us once more too't.

_Enter in the Middest Pembrooke, Ferdinand and Philip_.

_Pem_. Kings of Navar and Fraunce, why doe you thus

With civill butchery wound this blessed land,

Which like a mother from her melting eyes

Sheds crimson teares to see you enemyes?

Lewes of Fraunce, wherein hath great Navar

Dangerd your state that you should prosecute

War with her largest ruine? how hath Fraunce

Sowed such inveterate hate within your brest

That to confound him you will undergoe

The orphans curse, the widdowes teares and cries

Whose husbands in these warres have lost their lives?

Ere you contend discourse your grievances.

_Lew_. False Ferdinand, his sonne, ravisht our child.

_Ferd_. Now by my knighthood, honor, and this gage,

Fraunce, Ile approve you wrong that Ferdinand.

_Phil_. Who can accuse him?

_Lew_. That did Rodorick.

_Pem_. That Traytor for a deed so false, so foule,

Hath answerd it by this even with his soule.

_Nav_. Our sonne and valours bloome, th[e] English Pembrooke,

By Lewes treachery were butchered.

_Phil_. Were the whole world joynd in so false a thing,

Alone Ide combat all and cleere the King.

_Pem_. Fraunce never had designe in their two deaths.

_Nav_. He leagu'd with Burbon that destroyd my child.

_Lew_. He poysoned her deservedly.

_Phil_. That deed of shame

Cut off his life and raced out Burbons name.

_Lew_. His death shalbe thy death, for thy hand slue him.

_Nav_. This other in the battell twice to day

Made us retire. Fraunce, shall we joyne in league

Till we have veng'd our malice on these knights?

_Lew_. Navar, agreed. Souldiers, this kyld your Lords.

_Nav_. And this our fame. Let's mangle them with swords.

_Pem_. Take truce a while with rage: heare what we'le urge.

This knight slew Burbon, this inforst you fly;

Therefore you hate them and for hate they die.

Since then true vertue is disfigured,

Desert trod downe, and their heroick worth

In justice doomd on Traytors merits Death,

Behold these two, which thousands could not daunt,

But your ingratitude, on bended knee

Yeeld up their swoords to bide your tyranny.

'Twas he kild Burbon; if you love him dead,

Shew it by paring off this valiant head:

Do you the like. To this revenge apace:

They feare not threats, and scorne to beg for grace.

_Lew_. And they shall find none.

_Nav_. Knights, tryumph in death:

We are your headesmen, kings shall stop your breath.

_They take off their helmets_.

_Lew_. Philip, my sonne!

_Nav_. Young Ferdinand my joy!

_Pem_. Call them not sonnes, whom you would fayne destroy.

_Nav_. Hold not our age too long in deepe suspect.

Art thou [my] Ferdinand?

_Lew_. And thou [my] Philip?

_Ferd_. We are the friendly sonnes of adverse parents,

Your long lost children: though supposed slayne,

We live and come to joy your age agayne.

_Nav_. Welcome all earthly blisse.

_Lew_. Welcome, deare child;

Thy presence halfe our sorrow hath exil'd.

_Pem_. How soon this Scene is changd! those that even now

Were sworne warres servants now to peace do bow:

Then, Pembrooke, strive to make their joys more full.

See, kingly father to that princely sonne,

Pembrooke, the hated murderer of his friend,

Pembrooke, that did devide thee from his sight

And cut so many passages of death

In his indeared bosome, humbly thus

Forgets his honour and from your hye hand

Invokes revenge for wounding Ferdinand.

_Ferd_. Still he surmounts me in an honour'd love.

Rise, friend, or if thou striv'st to have the world,

In me as in a glasse see a false friend.

Behold, I kneele and here proclayme to all

My friendship's broke but thine substantiall.

_Nav_. Model of vertue, honord Pembroks Earle,

Rise in as deare regard as Ferdinand.

Oh had I Bellamira once in hold,

Age would turne youth & I should ne're be old.

_Lew_. Had I my Katharina once agayne

Our joy were then stretcht to the highest strayne:

But she was ravisht and then murthered.

_Phil_. Beare not that hard opinion: Rodoricks toung

Slaundred that Prince and did his vertue wrong.

_Pem_. Lewis of Fraunce, heare what an English Earle

Speaks in the front and view of all thy Host.

If ever Ferdinand staynd Katharines honour

I was a party: yet in all your Campe

Who dares step forth and call me ravisher?

No, Fraunce: know Pembroke is an Englishman

Highly deriv'd, yet higher in my thoughts;

And for to register mine acts in brasse,

Which all-devouring time shall ne're race out,

Have I through all the Courts of Christendome

In knightly tryall prov'd my vertue sound,

Raisd England's fame aloft; and shall I now

In her next continent, her neighbour Realme,

Fraunce, on whose bosome I may stand and see

That blessed soyle that bred and fostred me,

Soyle all my late got honour to consent

Unto a royall Princes ravishment?

Ide sooner from a mountayne cast my selfe,

Or from a hungry Lyon teare his prey,

Then dare to act a deed so infamous.

_Enter Katharina_.

But words are ayre. Lewis, behold this face:

This prooves our honour cleere from all disgrace.

_Lew_. My Katharine!

_Phil_. My deare Sister!

_Fer_. My fayre Love!

_Pem_. See, Princes, loves effect: she flies your hand

To live imbrac't with her deare Ferdinand.

_Lew_. And heaven forbid that we should sunder them.

Navar, reach me thy hand: grym war is fled

And peace shall end the same in a nuptiall bed.

Sonne Philip, ratify your sisters choyce.

_Phil_. Even with my soule; for ever live you blest.

Oh, Bellamira, had not cursed Burbon

For beauty robd thy cheeks with leprosie,

Hadst then but stayd with me, as is their state,

So had bin mine, happy and fortunate.

_Enter Clowne attyred like a Gentleman, Bellamira

following with a Scarfe on her face_.

_Clow_. By your leave, sweet blouds: may a Gentleman or so deceyve two

or three ounces of words in this assembly?

_Lew_. You may.

_Clow_. Is there not a young Kings sonne amongst you, who treading the

steps of his father is called Philip.

_Phil_. I am the man thou seekst.

_Clow_. Then the old saying is verified, He that seeks shall find. Heere

is a poore kinswoman of mine would desire some private conference with

you, or so.

_Phil_. With me?--whom see I? Bellamira!

_Nav_. Daughter!

_Phil_. Do not deride my woes; speake, speake, I pray.

_Pem_. Looke not so strange; it is thy lovely Love

Thus manag'd to approve thy constancy.

Embrace her then: and now Navar and Fraunce,

Here end our strife and let all hatred fall

And turne this warre to Hymens festivall.

_Nav_. This Pembrooks counsell we subscribe unto.

_Lew_. The like doth Fraunce. Lovers, imbrace your loves

And, Captaines, joyne your bands; mix power with power

And let those swords, which late were drawne for death,

Sleepe in their sheaths. You, worthy Pembrooke[155],

And all your followers, shall receyve our favours

In plenteous largesse. So, set on to Court;

Sound Drums and Trumpets, deafe the ayre with cryes,

And fill eche subjects heart with joyes increase

T'applaud our childrens love and this dayes peace.

[_Exeunt_.