_Rod_. It is in zeale of the generall good. Go to your Tent, refresh your unscorcht[144] lymmes; There draw your battels modell, and as soone As the coole winds have fand the burning Sunne And made it tractable for travaylers, Arme you and mount upon your barbed Steed, Lead foorth your Souldiers and in good array Charge bravely on the Army of our foe. _Lew_. The Duke of Orleance hath counseld well. Ile in and recreate me in my tent. Farewell, my Lord: when you resolve to fight, Proclayme your meaning by a Canons mouth And with a volley I will answere you. [_Exeunt Lewes and Flauuders_. _Bur_. If you will needs retyre, farewell, my Lord. Ha, Rodoricke, are not we fine Polyticians That have so quaintly wrought the king of Fraunce Unto our faction that he threatens warre Against the almost reconcilde Navar? _Rod_. But this is nothing to the actes weele do. Come, come, my Lord, you trifle time with words: Sit downe, sit downe, and make your warlike plot.-- But wherefore stand these murderous Glaves so nye? _Phil_.--Touch them not, Roderick; prythee let them stand. _Bur_. Some paper, pen, and incke. _Enter Peter_. _Pet_. My Lord. _Bur_. Post to the Master Gunner And bid him plant his demy culverings Against the kings pavilion. _Peter_. Presently. _Bur_. But first bring pen and incke and paper straight. [_Peter sets pen, ink, &c., before Burbon, and exit_[145] Rodoricke, thou shalt assist mee in this plot. _Rod_. Do it your selfe, my Lord; I have a charge Of souldiers that are very mutinous, And long I dare not stay for feare my absence Be cause of their revolt unto Navar. _Bur_. Then to your Souldiers: I will to my plot. _Phil_.--Away, my Lord, leave me unto the Duke. _Rod_.--Kill you the Duke (and after Ile kill thee). [_Exit Rod_. _Bur_. This pen is stabbed and it will not write: The incke that's in the standage[146] doth looke blacke, This in my pen is turnd as red as bloud. _Phil_. The reason that the platforme[147] you would make Must by this hand be written with thy bloud. _Bur_. Zounds, what art thou that threatens Burbon so? _Phil_. One that's as desperat-carelesse of his life As thou art timorous and fearst to dye. _Bur_. Comest thou to kill me? _Phil_. If I should say no, This weapon would condemne me, which I seyz'd Of purpose, Burbon, to bereave thy life. _Bur_. Why, fond man, mad man, know'st thou what thou doest? _Phil_. I know it, Burbon, and I know besides What thou wouldst say to daunt my resolution. _Bur_. What would I say? _Phil_. Why, that this place is death, As being thy Tent, environ'd with thy slaves, Where if I kill thee tis impossible To scape with life: this, Burbon, thou wouldst say. But Philip is not be mov'd with words. _Bur_. Philip!