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.