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.