_Na._ A smile a day, is all I will require: And if you pay me well the smiles you owe me, 1780 Ile kill this cursed care, or else beshrowe me. _Doug._ We are descried, oh _Mano_ we are dead. _Enter Iaques his sword drawne._ _Nano._ Tut yet you walk, you are not dead indeed, Drawe me your sword, if he your way withstand. _Do._ And I will seeke for rescue out of hand, Run _Nano_ runne, preuent thy Princes death. _Na._ Feare not, ile run all danger out of breath. _Iaq._ Ah you _calletta_, you _strumpet_, _ta Matressa Doretie este, vous surprius_ come say your pater noster, _car vous est mort par ma foy_ 1790 _Do._ _Callet_, _me strumpet_, _Catiue_ as thou art But euen a Princesse borne, who scorne thy threats. Shall neuer French man say, an English mayd, Of threats of forraine force will be afraid. _Iaq._ You no _dire vostre prieges, vrbleme merchants famme_, _guarda_ your _bresta_, _there me make you die on my morglay_, _Doro._ God sheeld me haplesse princes and a wife. _They fight, and shee is sore wounded._ And saue my soule, altho I loose my life. Ah I am slaine, some piteous power repay, 1800 This murtherers cursed deed, that doth me stay. _Iaq._ _Elle est tout mort_, me will runne _pur_ a wager, for feare me be _surpryes_ and _pendu_ for my labour. Be in _Ie meu alera au roy auy cits me affaires, Ie serra vn chiualier_, for this daies trauaile. _Exit._ _Enter ~Nano~, S. Cutbert Anderson, his sword drawne._ _S. Cutb._ Where is this poore distressed gentleman? _Nano._ Here laid on ground, and wounded to the death. 1810 Ah gentle heart, how are these beautious lookes, Dimd by the tyrant cruelties of death: Oh wearie soule, breake thou from forth my brest, And ioyne thee with the soule I honoured most. _S. Cut._ Leaue mourning friend, the man is yet aliue, Some helpe me to conuey him to my house: There will I see him carefully recured, And send priuie search to catch the murtherer. _Nano._ The God of heauen reward the curteous knight. _Exeunt._ And they beare out _Dorothea_. 1820 _Enter the King of Scots, ~Iaques~, ~Ateukin~, ~Andrew~, ~Iaques~ _IV. v._ running with his swoord one way, the King with his traine an other way._ _K. of S._ Stay _Iaques_, feare not, sheath thy murthering blade: Loe here thy King and friends are come abroad, To saue thee from the terrors of pursuite: What is she dead? _Iaq._ Wee Monsieur, elle is blesse per lake teste, oues les espanles, I warrant she no trouble you.