n Throne,
Too splendent for weake eyes to gaze upon.
She was too bright before, till being hid
Under that envious cloud, it took the place
Of a darke ground to show a lovelyer face.
That Leprosie in her seemd perfect beauty
And she did guild her imperfections o're
With vertue, which no foule calumnious breath
Could ever soyle: true vertues dye is such
That malice cannot stayne nor envy tuch.
Then say not but her worth surmounts these woes.

_Nav_. She griev'd to tye you to a hated bed
And therefore followed Burbon for revenge.

_Phil_. Bourbon! who names him? that same verball sound
Is like a thunderclap to Philips eares,
Frighting my very soule. Sure you said Burbon,
And to that prodegie you joynd revenge,
Revenge that like a shaddow followes him.
'Twas he that made me bankrout of all blisse,
Sude the divorce of that pure white and red
Which deckt my Bellamiraes lovely cheeks:
And shall he scape unpunisht?

_Lew_. Joyne your hands
And all with us sweare vengeance on the Duke.

_Phil_. Not for the world: who prosecutes his hate
On Burbon injures me; I am his foe,
And none but I will work his overthrow.

_Lew_. What meanes our sonne?

_Phil_. To hunt him for revenge.
The darkest angle of this universe
Shall not contayne him: through the bounded world
Ile prosecute his flight with ceaslesse steps,
And when long travell makes them dull or faynt,
Bayting[138] them fresh with Bellamiraes wrongs,
Like Eagles they shall cut the flaxen ayre
And in an instant bring me where he is.

_Lew_. Where goes our sonne?

_Phil_. To hell, so that in that kingdome
Fate would assertayne me to meet with Burbon.
Where ever I confront him, this shall kill him.

_Nav_. Thou shalt have ayd to compasse thy revenge.

_Phil_. No ayd but this strong arme. Farewell, farewell!
Since Bellamira hath forsooke her friend,
I seeke destruction (Burbon) and mine ende. [_Exit_.

_Lew_. Stay him: this fury will betray thy life.

_Nav_. Poore king made wretched by thy daughters losse!

_Lew_. Poore king made wretched by thy desperat sonne!

_Enter Messenger_.

_Mess_. Spend not your woes too fast, but save some teares
To dew the obsequies of your dead sonne.

_Nav_. What? Ferdinand?

_Mess_. Hee's slaine by Pembrokes hands
And Pembroke left breathles by Ferdinand.
Theire quarrell is uncertain and their bodies
By some uncivill hands convayed away,
And no inquiry can discover them.

_Nav_. Our sonne slaine? Bellamira poy