ne dye, and feele in hell,
Just torments for his trechery.

NAVARRE. What, is your highnes hurt?

KING. Yes Navarre, but not to death I hope.

NAVARRE. God shield your grace from such a sodaine death:
Goe call a surgeon hether strait.

[Exit attendant.]

KING. What irreligeous Pagans partes be these,
Of such as horde them of the holy church?
Take hence that damned villaine from my sight.

[Exeunt attendants with body]

EPERNOUNE. Ah, had your highnes let him live,
We might have punisht him for his deserts.

KING. Sweet Epernoune all Rebels under heaven,
Shall take example by his punishment,
How they beare armes against their soveraigne.
Goe call the English Agent hether strait,
Ile send my sister England newes of this,
And give her warning of her trecherous foes.

[Enter Surgeon.]

NAVARRE. Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound.

KING. The wound I warrant you is deepe my Lord,
Search Surgeon and resolve me what thou seest.

The Surgeon searcheth.

Enter the English Agent.

Agent for England, send thy mistres word,
What this detested Jacobin hath done.
Tell her for all this that I hope to live,
Which if I doe, the Papall Monarck goes
To wrack, an antechristian kingdome falles.
These bloudy hands shall teare his triple Crowne,
And fire accursed Rome about his eares.
Ile fire his erased buildings and incense
The papall towers to kisse the holy earth.
Navarre, give me thy hand, I heere do sweare,
To ruinate this wicked Church of Rome,
That hatcheth up such bloudy practices.
And heere protest eternall love to thee,
And to the Queene of England especially,
Whom God hath blest for hating Popery.

NAVARRE. These words revive my thoughts and comfort me,
To see your highnes in this vertuous minde.

KING. Tell me Surgeon, shall I live?

SURGEON. Alas my Lord, the wound is dangerous,
For you are stricken with a poysoned knife.

KING. A poysoned knife? what, shall the French king dye,
Wounded and poysoned, both at once?

EPERNOUNE. O that that damned villaine were alive againe,
That we might torture him with some new found death.

BARTUS. He died a death too good, the devill of hell
Torture his wicked soule.

KING. Oh curse him not since he is dead.
O the fatall poyson workes within my brest,
Tell