ou tell me if they live or no,
Or, dead, what hand hath given them buryall?

_Pem_. Rest you assured, Madam, they are dead:
The one of them, to whom I was allyed
And neerely knit in friendship from my youth,
By me lyes buried heere: a braver knight
And truer Lover never breathd in Fraunce.

_Kath_. O tell me, is it Pembrooke? if for him
You have erected this fayre monument,
Perpetuall honour I will do your state.

_Pem_. Not only, Madam, have I built this tombe
In his memoriall, but my selfe have sworne
Continuall residence within this wood;
And for the love I bare him weare these armes
That whatsoever knight, adventurer, or other,
Making his journey this way and refusing
To do knights homage to my breathlesse friend,
By this assayling steele may be compeld.

_Kath_. Oh let me know your name, so kindly mov'd
To dignifie my Pembrooke's high deserts.

_Pem_. You did not heare me say 'twas Pembrook, Madam.
What is become of him I do not know
Nor greatly care, since he did wrong my friend
And first inkindled this dissensious brawle.
This buryed here is noble Ferdinand,
His fathers comfort and his Countryes hope.
Oh, Madam, had you seene him as I did,
Begirt with wounds that like so many mouthes
Seem'd to complayne his timelesse overthrow,
And had before bin inward with his vertues;
To thinke that nature should indure such wracke
And at one time so many precious gifts
Perish by death, would have dissolv'd your heart.
He was the very pride of fortitude,
The house of vertue, and true friendship's mirrour.
Looke on his picture: in the armes of death
When he was ready to give up the ghost,
I causde it to be drawne. If at that time,
In that extremity of bitter pangs,
He lookt so lovely, had so fresh a colour,
So quick a moving eye, so red a lip,
What was his beauty when he was in health?
See with what courage he indur'd the combat,
Smiling at death for all his tyranny.
Had death bin ought but what he was, sterne death,
He would have bin enamour'd with his looks.

_Kath_.--A certayne soft remorce
Creeps to my heart, perswades me he was true,
Loving and vertuous, but my selfe unkind
Coyly to scorne the proffer of his mind.

_Pem_. O that in Justice of her former hate
She now would hopelesse doat on Ferdinand.
Ile do the best I can to bring her on:
Despaire and madnesse fetch her off againe.--
Madam, how say you? wast not a grevious thing
So rich a Jem should lye rak't up in dust,
So sweet a flower be withr