Agent for England, send thy mistress word What this detested Jacobin hath done. Tell her, for all this, that I hope to live; Which if I do, the papal monarch goes To wreck, and antichristian kingdom falls: 60 These bloody hands shall tear his triple crown, And fire accursèd Rome about his ears; I'll fire his crazèd buildings, and enforce The papal towers to kiss the lowly[430] earth. Navarre, give me thy hand: I here do swear To ruinate that wicked Church of Rome, That hatcheth up such bloody practices; And here protest eternal love to thee, And to the Queen of England specially, Whom God hath bless'd for hating papistry. 70 _Nav._ These words revive my thoughts, and comfort me, To see your highness in this virtuous mind. _Henry._ Tell me, surgeon, shall I live? _Surg._ Alas, my lord, the wound is dangerous, For you are stricken with a poison'd knife! _Henry._ A poison'd knife! what, shall the French king die, Wounded and poison'd both at once? _Eper._ O, that That damnèd villain were alive again, 79 That we might torture him with some new-found death! _Bar._ He died a death too good: The devil of hell torture his wicked soul! _Henry._ Ah, curse him not, sith he is dead!-- O, the fatal poison works within my breast!-- Tell me, surgeon, and flatter not--may I live? _Surg._ Alas, my lord, your highness cannot live! _Nav._ Surgeon, why say'st thou so? the king may live. _Henry._ O no, Navarre! thou must be king of France. _Nav._ Long may you live, and still be king of France! _Eper._ Or else, die Epernoun! 90 _Henry._ Sweet Epernoun, thy king must die.--My lords, Fight in the quarrel of this valiant prince, For he's your lawful king, and my next heir; Valois's line ends in my tragedy. Now let the house of Bourbon wear the crown; And may it ne'er end in blood as mine hath done!-- Weep not, sweet Navarre, but revenge my death.-- Ah, Epernoun, is this thy love to me? Henry, thy king, wipes off these childish tears, And bids thee whet thy sword on Sixtus' bones, 100 That it may keenly slice the Catholics. He loves me not [the most[431]] that sheds most tears, But he that makes most lavish of his blood. Fire Paris, where these treacherous rebels lurk.-- I die, Navarre: come bear me to my sepulchre. Salute the Queen of England in my name, And tell her Henry dies her faithful friend. [_Dies._