that in his soule hath sworne thine end.

_Pem_. A villayne? and my death? I am amaz'd:
Art thou awake, or is all this a dreame.

_Fer_. A dreame of death. Meet me to morrow morning,
As thou art Pembrooke and a Gentleman,
By yon fayre River side which parts our Camps.
You know the place: come armde, and so farewell.

_Pem_. Deare friend.

_Fer_. Push! meet me.

_Pem_. Ferdinand, I will.

_Fer_. Revenge, smile on, thou shalt drink bloud thy fill.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Peter standing sentronell_.

_Pet_. This is my wayting night: tis for no good
That I stand sentronell. Well, good or ill,
I care not greatly, so I get the gold:
Therefore, to avoyd prolixity, here walke I.
Here comes the men that must reward my paine.

_Enter Burbon and Rodoricke_.

_Bur_. Have you the poyson?

_Rod_. And a strong one too.
Heere's a preservative to save your hand:
When Rodoricke fayles your Lordship, heaven shall fayle
To illuminate the world with cheereful light.

_Bur_. Then here about should Peter wayt for me,
For this is the Pavilion of the Princesse.

_Pet_. My Lord.

_Bur_. Peter.

_Pet_. Here is the key that opens to the Tent:
I stole it from my sweet heart Thomasin.
Enter without prolixity, woo and winne the Lady;
But give me gold (my Lord) and Ile to Dice.

_Bur_. Hold, take thy fill.

_Pet_. And it shall goe as fast.

_Bur_. Now, gentle Peter, get thee unto rest.
My businesse craves the absence of the world:
None but my selfe and Rodoricke shall behold
The secret complot that I doe intend.

_Pet_. I goe, my Lord. [_Exit_.

_Bur_. Now, blessed key, open unto my love,
Doe more then loving lynes or words can doe.
My letters have bin answerd with disdayne:
Her father I have mov'd to gayne my love,
But he is frosty in my fervent suite;
And now perforce I will obtayne her love
Or ease her puling hatred by revenge.

_Rod_. You stay too long: Ile help to turne the key.

_Discover her sitting in a chayre asleepe_.

_Bur_. What do I see? the majesty of heaven
Sit in a mayden slumber on the earth?
What, is my Bellamira turnd a goddesse?
Within the table of her glorious face
Methinks the pure extraction of all beauty
Flowes in abundance to my love-sick eye.
O, Rodoricke, she is admirably fayre;
And sleeping if her beauty be so rare
How will her eyes inchaunt me if she wake.
Here, take the poyson; Ile not stayne her fa