_Jaq._ Ah, you _calletta_! you _strumpetta! Maitressa Doretie, êtes vous surprise?_ Come, say your paternoster, _car vous êtes morte, par ma foi_. _Q. Dor._ Callet! me strumpet! Caitiff as thou art! But even a princess born, who scorns thy threats: Shall never Frenchman say an England maid Of threats of foreign force will be afraid. _Jaq._ You no _dire votres prières? morbleu, mechante femme_, guarda your breasta there: me make you die on my Morglay.[287] _Q. Dor._ God shield me, helpless princess and a wife, And save my soul, although I lose my life! [_They fight, and she is sore wounded._ Ah, I am slain! some piteous power repay This murderer's cursèd deed, that doth me slay! _Jaq. Elle est tout morte._ Me will run _pour_ a wager, for fear me be _surpris_ and _pendu_ for my labour. _Bien, je m'en allerai au roi lui dire mes affaires. Je serai un chevalier_ for this day's travail. [_Exit._ [_Re-enter_ NANO, _with_ SIR CUTHBERT ANDERSON, _his sword drawn, and_ Servants. _Sir Cuth._ Where is this poor distressèd gentleman? _Nano._ Here laid on ground, and wounded to the death. Ah, gentle heart, how are these beauteous looks Dimm'd by the tyrant cruelties of death! O weary soul, break thou from forth my breast, And join thee with the soul I honour'd most! _Sir Cuth._ Leave mourning, friend, the man is yet alive. Some help me to convey him to my house: There will I see him carefully recur'd, And send privy search to catch the murderer. _Nano._ The God of heaven reward thee, courteous knight! [_Exeunt, bearing out_ QUEEN DOROTHEA. SCENE V.--_Another part of the Forest._ _Enter the_ KING OF SCOTS, JAQUES, ATEUKIN, ANDREW; JAQUES _running with his sword one way, the_ King _with his_ train _another way._ _K. of Scots._ Stay, Jaques, fear not, sheath thy murdering blade: Lo, here thy king and friends are come abroad To save thee from the terrors of pursuit. What, is she dead? _Jaq. Oui, Monsieur, elle_ is _blessée par la tête_ over _les épaules_: I warrant, she no trouble you. _Ateu._ O, then, my liege, how happy art thou grown, How favour'd of the heavens, and blest by love! Methinks I see fair Ida in thine arms, Craving remission for her late contempt; Methinks I see her blushing steal a kiss, Uniting both your souls by such a sweet; And you, my king, suck nectar from her lips. Why, then, delays your grace to gain the rest You long desir'd? why lose we forward time? Write, make me spokesman now, vow marriage: If she deny you favour, let me die.