_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.