soned?
Navarre, teare off these hayres and raging die.

_Enter Rodoricke_.

_Lew_. More Tragedies at hand? what newes brings Rodoricke?

_Rod_. Such as will make the hearers sencelesse truncks.
Why doth your highnes in your foe-mens tents
Revell away the time and yield your person
To the knowne malice of your enemies,
Whilst in your owne tents rapine and foule lust
Graspes your fayre daughter to dishonour her?

_Lew_. Our daughter?

_Rod_. She is slily stolen from thence,
Yet none knows whither save one Sentinell,
Who doth report he heard a wretched Lady
Exclaime false Ferdinand would ravish her.

_Lew_. That was my child, dishonor'd by thy sonne.

_Nav_. You wrong him, France.

_Lew_. Thou hast betrayed us, king,
And traynd us to a loathed festivall,
The mariage of thy staynd and leprous child,
Whilst in our absence Ferdinand unjust
Hath staind our daughters beautie with vild lust.

_Flaun_. If you remember, he & English Pembroke
Last day forsooke your Campe as discontent.

_Lew_. That proov'd their loves were fayn'd, and of set malice
He came to view our Campe, how he might act
That deed of obloquy and scape with lyfe.

_Nav_. Tis Fraunce hath done the wrong: you have commenst
This deed of death on Pembrook & our son,
And now, to cover it, suggest and fayne
Our guiltlesse sonne a guilty ravisher.
But render me their bodies.

_Lew_. Where's our Child?

_Nav_. Seeke her.

_Lew_. Seeke Ferdinand.

_Nav_. Fraunce!

_Lew_. Petty king,
For this our wrong looke to be underling.

_Nav_. What Drum is this?

_Lew_. Are we intrapt, Navar?

_Rod_. Feare not. On yonder hill, whose lofty head
Orelookes the under-valleyes, Royall Burbon,
Attended by ten thousand Souldiers,
Craves peace and faire accord with mighty Fraunce.

_Nav_. Burbon that was the ruyne of my Child!
Summon our forces straight and charge the slave.

_Lew_. What meanes the king of Fraunce?

_Rod_. To joyne with him.

_Nav_. What? with a Traytor and a murtherer?

_Lew_. He did a deed of merit and of fame,
Poysoned the Sister of a ravisher,
A Tarquin, an incestuous Tereus,
And our poore Child the wronged Philomell.
Arayne our Battailes straight and joyne with Burbon.

_Nav_. Heare what wee'le urge.

_Lew_. Speake then in warre and death:
In other termes our rage will spend no breath.

_Nav_. And we will speake so lowd that heaven it selfe
Shall echo with the clangor. Both our children
Weele race from our remembranc