_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?