_Bow_. So, there's for your prolixities, there's for Thomasin. The Thornbackly slave! and he were made of anything but gristles, I am a pumpian. 'Shart he had no mettle in him; yet how the villayne crak't[152] and dominierd when he was living: ah, sirra, never gryn for the matter, tis Captayne Bowyer that speaks it. When thou meetst the great Devill, commend me to him and say I sent him thee for a new years gift. And there's one Sarlaboys to, as arrant a blood-sucker and as notable a coward as ever drew weapon in a bawdy house, he carryes my marke about him. If Dicke Bowyer be not writ a bountifull benefactor in hell for my good deeds in sending thither such Cannibals, I am a rabbit sucker[153]: yet I scorne to vaunt of my deeds, too. They sound a retreat. Farewell, Peter, and learne hereafter what it is to be rivall to an English gentleman, Cavaliero Bowyer, one of the nine worthyes. _A retreyt. Enter at one dore Fraunce, Flaunders, and Souldiers: at the other dore Navar, Bowyer and Souldiers_. _Lew_. Navar, why have you sounded a retreyt? Will your proud heart decline and call us lord? _Nav_. We thought by the faynt language of your drums Fraunce would have knowne his errour and beg'd peace. _Lew_. Fraunce beg a peace! _Nav_. Navar call you his Lord! _Flan_. Why did you cease the fight and sound retreat. _Bow_. Not we by this beard, not we by the life of Pharo[154]. _Nav_. Your Trumpets, guided by your faynting breath, Dehorted us from war and sounded peace. _Lew_. Navar derides us. _Nav_. Fraunce, tis you that doo't. _Lew_. Sound war and bravely let us once more too't. _Enter in the Middest Pembrooke, Ferdinand and Philip_. _Pem_. Kings of Navar and Fraunce, why doe you thus With civill butchery wound this blessed land, Which like a mother from her melting eyes Sheds crimson teares to see you enemyes? Lewes of Fraunce, wherein hath great Navar Dangerd your state that you should prosecute War with her largest ruine? how hath Fraunce Sowed such inveterate hate within your brest That to confound him you will undergoe The orphans curse, the widdowes teares and cries Whose husbands in these warres have lost their lives? Ere you contend discourse your grievances. _Lew_. False Ferdinand, his sonne, ravisht our child. _Ferd_. Now by my knighthood, honor, and this gage, Fraunce, Ile approve you wrong that Ferdinand. _Phil_. Who can accuse him? _Lew_. That did Rodorick. _Pem_. That Traytor for a deed so false, so foule, Hath answerd it by this even with his soule. _Nav_. Our sonne and valours bloome, th[e] English Pembrooke, By Lewes treachery were butchered. _Phil_. Were the whole world joynd in so false a thing, Alone Ide combat all and cleere the King. _Pem_. Fraunce never had designe in their two deaths. _Nav_. He leagu'd with Burbon that destroyd my child. _Lew_. He poysoned her deservedly. _Phil_. That deed of shame Cut off his life and raced out Burbons name.