[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.