Aquitayne
And came acquaynted with these private walks,
It was my happy chance to meet an Hermit
Whose skill in Phisike warrants present cure
And pure refining of your poysoned bloud.
Ile bring you thither: afterward select
Delicious sweets to decke your brothers tombe.
Come, sirra, follow us.
[_Exeunt_.

_Clow_. Doe not think, Madam, that Ile forsake you. And so, sir, you
that walk in pewter vessayle, like one of the worthyes, will you be
rul'd by me?

_Pem_. Wherein?

_Clow_. To set a gyn for Woodcocks & catch your selfe first.
[_Exit_.

_Pem_. Hence, beetle-head. And, Pembrook, now bethink
How great a tyde of miseries breakes in.
First, thou art taxed with the losse of him
Whom equall with thy selfe thou holdest Deare;
Next, Bellamira is become a Leper,
Whose absence Philip carefully laments;
Then trecherous Burbon joynes himselfe with Fraunce
And both the Kings are angerly incenst;
But last, which is some comfort to the rest,
Disdaynfull Katharine wastes with fruiteless love:
Would all so minded like mishap might prove.
But by this signall there are knights at hand:
I must provide their valours to withstand.

_Enter Fraunce, Burbon, Rodoricke, Peter de Lions, at
one dore; at the other Navar, Flaunders, Dicke
Bowyer and Souldiers: Pembrooke betweene them_.

_Pem_. Stay your intended march.

_Lew_. What Peere of France
Or in the world, so haughty-resolute,
Dare breathe the word of "stay" to mighty Fraunce?

_Nav_. Or what art thou presum'st to stay my course?

_Pem_. A knight I am and to adventures bound:
This monument erected for my friend
By me is garded. If you meane to passe,
You must do homage or else fight with me.

_Lew_. Homage of me! Know I am King of France
And in subjection to no earthly powers.

_Nav_. Thou knowst not what thou sayst to challenge us
Of any such inferiour priviledge.
What homage is it thou requir'st of us?

_Pem_. First to acknowledge him lyes buried here
The faythfulst Lover and most valyant Knight
That in this time drew sword or manag'd horse.

_Bow_. And what was he? Ascapart[139] or your countreyman Gargantua,
that stuft every button of his coate with a load of hay? 'S hart, wee
have met a fellow here's all mouth, hee speakes nothing but Monarch.
Doest thou heare, King? give me leave to incounter this puckfist,[140]
and if I doe not make him cry _Peccavi_ say