_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_. [SCENE 1.] _Enter Pembrooke armde and the Forrester_. _Pem_. I thank thee, Forrester, whose rough grown walks, Wild in aspect, afford more courtesy Then places smoother for civility. My life, redeemd by thy industrious hand, Remaynes in love and duty bound to thee. _For_. Fayre Knight, prevention of sad death by health More joyes my soule then thanks or rich reward. But is your armour easy? sits it well? _Pem_. I never in my life was better fitted. This should be that unlucky fatall place Where causlesse hate drew bloud from Ferdinand. Behold the grasse: a purple register Still blusheth in remembrance of our fight. Why wither not these trees, those herbs and plants? And every neighbour branch droup out their grief? Poore soules, they do, and have wept out their sap. Yet I have paid no duety to my friend. Where is the Tombe I wild you to erect? _For_. See, valiant knight, proportiond and set up As well as my poore skill would suffer mee: And heere his picture hangs.