e thy Kingdome of the Crowne of France.

_Pem_. Talke not of yeres, yeres limit not a Crowne;
There's no prescription to inthrall a King.
He finds it written in the Rowles of time
Navar's a Kingdome solely absolute,
And by collusion of the Kings of France,
The people speaking all one mother toung,
It hath bin wrested for a Royalty
Untruly due unto the Crowne of France.
That _Pembrook_ speaks the truth, behold my sword,
Which shall approve my words substantiall.

_Rod_. _Pembrooke_, you are too plaine in your discourse.

_Bur_. I tell thee, _Rodoricke, Pembrooke_ soldier-like
Hath truely opened what ten thousand lives
Will hardly doe if warre be made the Judge.

_Rod_. If war be Judge? Why, shallow-witted _Burbon_,
Who shall decide this difference but war?
Hath not the Judge put on his Scarlet Robe?
Is not the field prepar'd? our men in armour?
The trumpets ready for the sound of death,
And nothing hinders us but our owne words?
Leave idle parley, my dread soveraigne Lord,
And soone resolve the Duke in fire and smoke
That he maintaines a title false and forg'd,
And that _Navar_ is a usurping Lord.

_Na_. On that Ile hazzard all these valiant lives.
Sound Drums and Trumpets! make King _Lewes_ know
He makes his best friend prove his greatest foe.

_Lew_. Why pause our drums? our trumpets beat as loud!
Till the bright ayre be made a purple cloud.

_Phil_. Pause, gracious father.

_Ferd_. Noble father, pause.
Let _Ferdinand_ thy sonne so far prevayle
That peace, not war, may end this difference.

_Bel_. For _Bellamiraes_ sake abstayne from war.

_Phil_. _Philip_ thy sonne humbly desires a peace:
Let not my father sheathe his warlike sword
Within the bowels of his Countrymen.

_Kath_. Thy daughter _Katharina_ prayes the like.

_Nav_. From whence proceeds this sudden sound of peace?
Comes it from me? what? from my _Ferdinand_,
From _Bellamira_ my sweet second selfe?

_Lew_. Or rather comes it, _Lewes_, from thy soule,
Thy _Philip_ the true image of thy selfe,
Thy _Katharina_ thy heart's chiefest joy?

_Rod_. Princes, you aske you know not what your selves.

_Pem_. _Rodorick_, they aske a sweet and pleasing boone.

_Rod_. Why, they aske peace and we are set for war.

_Fer_. Tis a bad peace exceeds not a just war.

_Phil_. We will not rise from this submissive ground
Till we obtayne, if not a peace, a truce.

_Fer_. Nor shall our feet be guilty of new steps
Till I obtayne a truce from murdering