f Julius Caesar rise up against us, e're
he do my Lord any wrong, zounds Ile be cut smaller then pot-hearbs. Ile
to the trenches: come, Thomasin.--Leere not, Lobster, lest I thump that
russeting[129] face of yours with my sword hilt till that it looke as
pyde colourd as the Rainbow. By Jesu, Ile do it, and therefore follow me
not.
[_Exeunt_.

_Pem_. Why should this loade of griefe lye on my heart
With such a ponderous waight? I know no cause,
Unlesse it be by thinking on the wrong
My friend receyves in the unmatched love
Which Katherine beares me: yet my fayth is sound,
And like a solid Rock shall check her teares.
Katharine loves me; yet, for my friends delight,
Pembrooke will hate her love and flye her sight.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Burbon, Navar, Philip, Bellamira, Rodoricke, and attendants_.

_Bur_. Navar, you sprinckle me with foule reproch
And dimme the luster of our royall name
With colours of dishonour.

_Nav_. Heare me, Burbon.

_Bur_. What words can satisfy so great a wrong?
Have you not, with consent of all your Lords,
Promis'd your daughter to this generous prince?

_Nav_. Their true love forst us to it.

_Bur_. True love? 'tis faynd.

_Phil_. Ha, Burbon!

_Bel_. Gentle Philip--

_Phil_. With my sword
Ile prove my love unfayned, thee a false Lord.

_Bur_. This like a Sanctuary frees thy toung
And gives thee childish liberty of speech,
Which els would fawne and crouch at Burbons frowne.

_Phil_. Now by St. Denis--

_Bur_. Ile not chat with boyes:
Navar, to thee I speak. Thy daughters looks,
Like the North Star to the Sea-tost Mariners,
Hath brought me through all dangers, made me turne
Our royall Palace to this stage of death,
Our state and pleasure to a bloudy Campe,
And with the strength and puissance of our force
To lift thy falling and decayed state
Even to her pristine glory. In thy quarrell,
Burbon hath set himselfe against his king
And soyl'd his greatnesse with a Traytors name,
Now when our worth expected rich reward,
Fayre Bellamira, wonder of her time,
Must Philip have her?

_Phil_. Burbon, she is mine.

_Bur_. _Mortdew_! Ile be reveng'd, by heaven I will,
Or I will pave these plaines with the dead bodies
Of our deare subjects. We have sworne thy fall:
That oathes thy death, our rage thy funerall.

_Nav_. Heare our excuse.

_Bur_. We will not credit ayre.
--Peter, watch Rodorick: when the prince is