Chapter 16

_Pem_. Must I be spokesman? _Pembrooke_ plead for love? Whose tounge tuned to the Instruments of war Never knew straine of fancy; on my breathe Affection never dwelt, but war and death! But if thou lov'dst to have thy soldiers fight, Or hearten the spent courages of men, _Pembrooke_ could use a stile invincible. Lov'dst thou a towne, Ide teach thee how to woo her With words of thunder-bullets wrapt in fire,[112] Till with thy cannon battry she relent And humble her proud heart to stoop to thee. Or if not this, then mount thee on a steed Whose courage never awde an yron Bit, And thou shalt heare me hollow to the beast And with commanding accents master him. This courtship _Pembrooke_ knowes, but idle love, The sick-fac't object of an amorous brayne, Did never clothe mine eye-balls, never taught This toung, inurde to broyles and stratagems, The passionate language of a troubled heart: I am too blunt and rude for such nice service. Yet since my friend injoynes me to this taske, Take courage, Ile both speake, plead, woo for thee, And when I want fit words to move her mind Ile draw my sword and sweare she must be kind. Drummer, report our presence to the king.

_A parley and answered. Enter France, Flaunders and attendants_.

_Lew_. Prince _Ferdinand_ and honourd English _Pembrooke_, Now by S. _Denis_ welcome! One runne straight And give our daughter notice of these ghests. What, man? we know you come prepar'd to woo, To woo, to winne: now by our sacred life We wish in soule our daughter were your wife. Our sonne is with your sister: faire hap wayt, For peace or war lives in your love or hate. Welcome once more: first weele go see your love, After to banquet and from thence to woo. Be merry then; weele share a friendly part, But you shall tryumph in our daughter's heart.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter_ Katharine, _her man_ Bowyer, _and a Paynter_.

_Kath_. See that the tent be ready furnished By this my father and those Lords are met, Mongst whom the noble _Pembrooke_, like the Sunne, Out-shines the borrowed glory of the rest. And well I may compare him to the Sunne, That but once lookt upon with his fayre shape Hath dazled my poore sences and left me blind. But, sirra, where's the man I bade you bring?

_Bow_. If you can judge of colours (madam) this is he. Paynter, stand forth.

_Kath_. An earnest cause (my friend) importunes me, Wherein I am to crave thy cunningst Arte.

_Payn_. Such as it is you may commaund, faire Princesse.

_Kath_. But are thy colours fresh, thy pensill smoothe? Thy hand unwavering, and thy head dislodg'd Of all unquiet harsh incumbrances? For thou must draw proportion of those parts Whose worth to tell my toung wants utterance.

_Payn_. Feare you not, Madam; I am well prepar'd.

_Kat_. Then hither strait with youthfull _Ferdinand_, _Navar's_ stout sonne, there comes an English Knight, _Pembrooke_ they call him, honourably borne. Him (when we are in conference) thou shalt marke And to the life set doune his counterfet. Nor is it needful I should shew him thee! The goodliest person in the traine, that's he.

_Bow_. Let me alone to give the Paynter destruction. I know him as well as the Begger knowes his dish[113]: he weares a white Scarfe in his hat and an Orange tawny feather upon his arme.

_Kath_. Foole, indirectly thou describ'st another, Thats Prince _Navar_: _Pembrooke_ his plume is Azure A little intermixt with spotlesse white, Prefiguring the temper of the Sky With whose hye motion his great mind doth move.

_Bow_. Orange tawny and Azure, all's one, all is but feather; there is no difference I am sure but in colour.

_Kath_. Why, thats as much as may be, is it not?

_Bow_. Not so, Ile prove the contrary: You are fayre and I am foule; is it that all the difference betweene you and I? there's another thing in it if you marke it well.

_Kath_. I prythee peace and with thy ignorance Draw not the Paynter likewise into errour. Here take thy stand; thou knowst him by these markes I lately spake of. Seeme to excell thine Arte And I will study to requite thy paynes.

_Enter Lewes, Ferdinand, Pembrooke, Rodoricke, and Flaunders_.

_Lew_. Thus did the Greeks, when they begirt the walles Of strong-built Troy, sometimes with friendly cheeks Entertayne peace and spend their frollick houres In courtly feasting of each other foe. Welcome, young _Ferdinand_! I promise you It cheeres my spirit we doe embrace you here: And welcome too, brave Lord. We cannot say, As if we were in Paris we might say, Your viands shall be costly: but presume, Such as the Camp affords, weele have the best. Daughter, I prythee bid them welcome.

_Kath_. My Lord, I doe, That with the Congy of a bended knee, But this with my true hearts[114] loyalty. Lords, you are welcome by my father's leave.

_Lew_. Why, now thou dost content thy father _Kate_, When wholy unto merryment inclined Thou answerst with like simpathy of mind.

_Ferd_. But yet her looks are haggard and obscure, Which makes me doubtfull sheele not stoop to lure.

_Lew_. Princes, let's enter: come, Ile lead the way! The feast is mine, you are my ghests this day.

_Ferd_. Now, _Pembrooke_, shew thy friendships true effect; Obtayne her love, my life thou shalt protect.

[_Exeunt Lew. Ferd. Rod. & Flaund_.

_Kath_.--He stayes behind the rest. O happy houre! Worke on (sweet Paynter) to inrich mine eye With that which els procures my tragedy.

_Pem_. Fayre Madam, in this confluence of sweet joy, When every one resorts unto the feast, Me thinkes you should not thus retyre alone, As seeming your best fare were heavy mone.

_Kath_. I am not (Sir) alone, nor do I starve My appetite with any wil-full fast; I have a banquet of sweet pleasing thoughts That is more precious then the costliest feast.

_Pem_. But at your father's boord there sits a ghest To whom the cup of _Ganimede_ will seeme But juice of Hemlocke, and the daintiest dish As much unsavory as the Pomice stone, Unlesse your presence season his delight.

_Kath_. I am sorry I want skill to serve his dyet; I have not bin instructed to such end.

_Pem_. But I will teach you (Madam) if you please.

_Kath_. Rather the party grieved first should shew Wherein we erre, els how can we discerne What is our fault or how we may amend?

_Pem_. That office he commits unto my toung.

_Kath_. Is he not able then to speake himselfe?

_Pem_. Yes, Madam, I have heard when _Ferdinand_, With whom in _Padua_ I was conversant, So spake in the assembly of the learn'd, With such a grace and well composed phrase, As many thought grave _Tullies_ eloquence Flowed like a hony River from his lips.

_Kath_. He wanteth then belike sufficient courage.

_Pem_. Never liv'd Knight lesse prejudic'd in that Then valiant _Ferdinand_, whom I have seene Couch his stiffe[115] Launce with such dexterity As if the god of battell had himselfe Entered the Lists, and preassing to the midst Of steele-composed troops like lightning fly Till he had made a passage with his sword.

_Kath_. So puissant in his fortitude with men, And daunted with a silly womans looks! How can that be?

_Pem_. Yes, when you weygh the force Of your resistlesse and controwling beauty. It is your beauty, were his power and spirit Ten times more hauty-ventrous then it is, Compels it stoope in homage to your foot As trembling Lambs when they to Lions couch.

_Kath_. 'Twas well he chose so good an Orator To plead the imperfections of his cause.

_Pem_. I should have that opinion of my selfe If for my sake your Grace would favour him.

_Kath_. Yes, for your sake we have endur'd his name, And for your sake we tolerate his suite; But, when you cease to speake, then all that prayse You have attributed to his desert Seemes borrowed from your selfe; you are the man Whose eloquence compares with _Ciceroes_, You are the man whose knightly fortitude Lives in the world unprejudic'd of any, You vanquish beauty and inthrall the mind Of female weaknesse with no lesser awe Then Indian vassayles stoop unto their Lords. The name of _Ferdinand_ you have mista'ne. Say tis your selfe, and then your whole discourse Observes the perfect method that it should.

_Pem_. Should I be false and trecherous to my friend? I am intreated but to speake for him.

_Kath_. But for your selfe would be more acceptable. Oh pardon me, nor let immodest stayne[116] Cleave to my brow: my love is chastely bred. Other then _Pembrooke Katharine_ never vowes Shall be authoriz'd in her mayden thoughts.

_Pem_. Mistake me not, I say tis _Ferdinand_ Dyes in affection to your Deity.

_Kath_. But in affection I survive to none But onely _Pembrooke_.

_Pem_. Will you be esteem'd A cruel murdresse of a loyall friend?

_Kath_. Will _Pembrooke_ triumph in a womans fall?

_Pem_. You anger me. Respect young _Ferdinand_.

_Kath_. You please me not to speake of _Ferdinand_.

_Pem_. Nay, then, tis time to go or wrong my friend. Since, Madam, what I would I cannot doe, Mine honour here bids me leave off to woo. [_Exit_.

_Kath_. Stay, _Pembrooke_, Katharine will sue to thee; So shalt thou keepe thy fayth and loyalty.

_Bow_. Tary, sir, tary, we want the length of your nose: nay, if you will not heare, Ile be so bold as to follow your nose. Sir, tary, tary. [_Exit_.

_Kath_. He will not heare nor (too unkind) looke backe.

_Payn_. But, Madam, spight his heart you shall see this.

_Kath_. Give me his picture. Image far more kind Then is the substance whence thou art deriv'd, Which way soever I divert my selfe Thou seemst to follow with a loving eye. Thee will I therefore hold within my armes As some small comfort to increasing harmes.

_Enter Ferd_.

_Ferd_.--What meanes my second selfe by this long stay? I cannot rest till I be certified What good or bad successe my suite returnes. But he is gone, and in faire _Katharines_ hand I see his picture. What may this pretend?

_Kath_. Thou hast done well indeed, in every part Thou shewst complete and cunning workmanship; His eye, his lip, his cheeke are rightly fram'd, But one thing thou hast grossly over-slipt: Where is his stubborne unrelenting heart That lurkes in secret as his master doth, Disdayning to regard or pity me.

_Payn_. Madam, his heart must be imagined By the description of the outward parts.

_Kath_. O no, for then it would be tractable, Mild and applausive as the others be.

_Ferd_. No Prince but _Pembrooke_ dwels in _Katharines_ eye.

[_Kath_] Whose that disturbs our pleasing solitude?

_Ferd_. Know you not me? my name is _Ferdinand_, Whose faithfull love Lord _Pembrooke_ late commenct.

_Kath_. Speake then for _Pembrooke_ as he did for you Or els your bootlesse suite will soon be cold.

_Ferd_. Why he was Orator in my behalfe. If I should speake for him, as he for me, Then should I breathe forth passions[117] not mine owne.-- I, I, tis so; the villaine in my name Hath purchas'd her affection for himselfe, And therefore was he absent from the feast, And therefore shuns my sight and leaves behind This counterfet to keep him still in mind. Tis so, tis so; base Traytor, for this wronge My sword shall cut out thy perfidious toung. [_Exit_.

_Enter Bowyer_.

_Bow_. I have runne till I sweat, sweat till my shirt cleaves to my backe, cryed till I am hoarse, and am hoarse till I cannot cry; and yet he will not come backe.

_Kath_. No matter, fellow, I have here a pledge Which I will zealously devote me to.-- There's thy reward: withdraw, my father comes.

[_Exit Painter_.

_Enter Lewes_.

_Lew_. Where are these Lords? the one hath sate with me And suddenly is risen from the boord, The other came not at all. Daughter, saw you The Prince or _Pembrooke_ which way they are gone?

_Kath_. Backe to their Tents, my Lord, as I suppose.

_Lew_. Back to their tents and take no leave of us? Nay, then I feare their meaning was too smoothe And some black Treason cover'd in their smiles. Which we will seeke immediately to prevent.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus Secundus_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter Dicke Bowyer and soldiers, with Drum and colours_.

_Bow_. Stand, give the word along, stand.

_Lieu_. Stand there!

_Bow_. Lieutenant.

_Lieu_. Captayne.

_Bow_. Is the watch set in the King's quarter yet.

_Lieu_. An houre agoe.

_Bow_. 'Zounds what foolish Canaanits were they to run in debt to their eyes for an houres sleepe sooner then they needed! Sergeant.

_Ser_. Anon, Sir.

_Bow_. Anon, Sir! s'hart the Rogue answers like a Drawer, but tis the tricke of most of these Sergeants, all clincum clancum. Gods dynes[118], I am an _Onyon_ if I had not rather serve formost in the forlorne hoope of a battell or runne poynt blancke against the mouth of a double charged Cannon then come under the arrests of some their pewter pessels. Zounds, tis hotter a great deale then hell mouth and _Dives_ burning in Sulphur: but thou art none of the genealogy of them. Where must we watch to night?

_Serg_. In the furthest Trenches that confront the enemies campe.

_Bow_. Thats the next way to have all our throats cut.

_Lieu_. That cannot be; you know, Captain, there's a peace toward.

_Bow_. A pox a peace, it keeps our Ancient whole, but s'hart our gaberdines go to wrack. But _futra_! tis well known since _Dick Bowyer_ came to France he hath shewed himselfe a gentleman and a Cavaliero and sets feare at's heeles. And I could scape (a pox on it) th'other thing, I might haps return safe and sound to England. But what remedy? al flesh is grasse and some of us must needes be scorcht in this hote Countrey. Lieutenant _Core_, prithee lead my Band to their quarter; and the rogues do not as they should, cram thy selfe, good _Core_, downe their throats and choak them. Who stands Sentronell to night, Sir?

_Sol_. That must I, Captayne.

_Bow_. You, _Rafe Nod_? zounds, soldiers, follow my discipline, say your prayers, you are all dead men, all dust and ashes, all wormes meat.

_Lieu_. How so, Captayne?

_Bow_. Doe you make him Sentronell? s'hart heele nod[119] presently: and he do not sleepe sitting upon the poynt of a Spanish needle, _Dicke Bowyer's_ a very shittle-cocke. _Nod_! zounds, he is one of the nine sleepers, a very Dormouse: & I had a pageant to present of the seven deadly Sinnes[120], he should play Slouth; and he did not sleepe when he should speake his part I am a Badger.

_Soul_. That's true; you have halfe the nature of a Badger, for one leg is shorter then another.

_Bow_. Zounds, you Rogue, doe not you know that? Ile tell you: s'hart and I lye, call me Jebuzite. Once as I was fighting in S. Georges fields, and blind Cupid seeing me and taking me for some valiant _Achilles_, he tooke his shaft and shot me right into the left heele; and ever since _Dick Bowyer_ hath beene lame. But my heart is as sound as a bell: heart of Oake, spirit, spirit! Lieutenant, discharge _Nod_ and let _Cricket_ stand Sentronell till I come.

_Lieu_. He shall, Captayne.

_Bow_. On afore! strike Drum, march soldiers, keep your place, Nod. Lusty, my harts, for the honour of England and our brave General the Earle of Pembrooke! [_Exeunt soldiers_.] So I have discharg'd my selfe of these. Hot shot![121] now to my love. Some may say the tale of Venus loving Mars is a fable, but he that is a true soldier and a Gent. as Dick Bowyer is, & he do not love some varlet or other, zounds he is worse then a gaping Oyster without liquor. There's a pretty sweet fac't mother[122] that waits on the princesse that I have some mind to; but a whorson _Architophel_, a parasite, a rogue, one whose face looks worse then a Tailors cushen of old shreds and colours, zounds like a weavers leg in an old ditch feeding horseleaches; & this trotter is my ryval & loves _Thomasin_: his name is _Peter de Lions_, but s'hart (I will not sweare neither) if I do not turne Rich. _Cor de Lion_ with him, if I do not teare out his heart and eate it with mustard, let him say Dick Bowyer's a Mackarell. Yonder hee comes with my property hand in hand. Zounds! I say nothing, but ile heare what they say and determine afterward.

_Enter Peter and Thomasin_.

_Pet_. Thomasin, you know me, I hate prolixity: in a word, my humour is thus, I love.

_Bow_.--And I do not spoyle that humor, so--

_Pet_. Your answere compendiously & avoyd prolixity.

_Tom_. Mary muffe[123]! by Jesu I scorne to humble the least part about me to give answere to such a trothing question: as I live it joults mine eares worse in hearing then the princes coach on a broken cawsey.

_Pet_. _Thomasin_, leave this pace & take me with you[124]. My Lord loves your Lady, yet I heare she is this night betrothed to the Prince of France: I love you & shall I lose you? No: I hate prolixity; in a word, the end is Ile mary you.

_Tho_. Prety, as God save me! What will Captaine Bowyer say to that if he should know it?

_Bow_.--A good Rogue, by Jesu!

_Pet_. Bowyer a Captayne? a Capon, a button mould, a lame haberdine[125], a red beard Sprat, a Yellowhammer, a bow case, a very Jackdaw with his toung slit.

_Bow_.--Zounds, what a Philistine is this! what a dictionary of proper names hath the Rogue got together! heart, his toung crawles as fast as the cheese doth in Germany. Ile pearce you for this, you Lobster.

_Pet_. Bowyer? _mordu! futra_[126] for him! and that sowre crab do but leere at thee I shall squeeze him to Vargis[127].

_Bow_. And you squeeze me I may haps grow saucy with you, you whorson burnd Pudding pye, you drye Parsnip. Kisse me, Thomasin. So, dare you stand to your word now and squeeze me.

_Pet_. Stumps, I challenge thee for this indignity. Bowyer, I will gyrd my selfe with thy guts. I am a souldiour and a Captayne.

_Bow_. Captayne? s'hart, and thou hast under thy charge any other then Pigmies I am a Gogmagog. Dost thou heare, sowgelder? and I do not with sixe Cranes (wel marshald) overrunne thee and thy hundred and fifty, say Dick Bowyer's a coward.

_Pet_. For that word draw.

_Tho_. Hold, Gentlemen.

_Bow_. Peace, good Thomasin, silence, sweet socket [sucket?]. Peter, dost see this sword? this sword kild Sarlaboys, that was one Rogue: now it shall kill thee, that's two Rogues. Whorson puttock[128], no garbage serve you but this? have at you!

_As they fight enters Pembrooke_.

_Pem_. Who's this at enmity within our Camps? What! Bowyer and the servant to great Burbon? Both sheathe your weapons: by our martiall law This act is death.

_Bow_. Ile be hangd then. Dost thou heare, noble Generall? Dicke Bowyer knowes what belongs to service: we did not draw of any malice, by this element of iron & steele, but to measure which of our swords were longest.--Ile save you for once, you Sarazen, because I see youle hang scurvily: but the next time--

_Pem_. Good Captayne Bowyer, let our English troops Keepe a strong watch to night: my throbbing heart, Like to a Scritchowle in the midnight houre, Bodes some black scene of mischiefe imminent.

_Bow_. Never feare, Generall: if Julius Caesar rise up against us, e're he do my Lord any wrong, zounds Ile be cut smaller then pot-hearbs. Ile to the trenches: come, Thomasin.--Leere not, Lobster, lest I thump that russeting[129] face of yours with my sword hilt till that it looke as pyde colourd as the Rainbow. By Jesu, Ile do it, and therefore follow me not. [_Exeunt_.

_Pem_. Why should this loade of griefe lye on my heart With such a ponderous waight? I know no cause, Unlesse it be by thinking on the wrong My friend receyves in the unmatched love Which Katherine beares me: yet my fayth is sound, And like a solid Rock shall check her teares. Katharine loves me; yet, for my friends delight, Pembrooke will hate her love and flye her sight.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Burbon, Navar, Philip, Bellamira, Rodoricke, and attendants_.

_Bur_. Navar, you sprinckle me with foule reproch And dimme the luster of our royall name With colours of dishonour.

_Nav_. Heare me, Burbon.

_Bur_. What words can satisfy so great a wrong? Have you not, with consent of all your Lords, Promis'd your daughter to this generous prince?

_Nav_. Their true love forst us to it.

_Bur_. True love? 'tis faynd.

_Phil_. Ha, Burbon!

_Bel_. Gentle Philip--

_Phil_. With my sword Ile prove my love unfayned, thee a false Lord.

_Bur_. This like a Sanctuary frees thy toung And gives thee childish liberty of speech, Which els would fawne and crouch at Burbons frowne.

_Phil_. Now by St. Denis--

_Bur_. Ile not chat with boyes: Navar, to thee I speak. Thy daughters looks, Like the North Star to the Sea-tost Mariners, Hath brought me through all dangers, made me turne Our royall Palace to this stage of death, Our state and pleasure to a bloudy Campe, And with the strength and puissance of our force To lift thy falling and decayed state Even to her pristine glory. In thy quarrell, Burbon hath set himselfe against his king And soyl'd his greatnesse with a Traytors name, Now when our worth expected rich reward, Fayre Bellamira, wonder of her time, Must Philip have her?

_Phil_. Burbon, she is mine.

_Bur_. _Mortdew_! Ile be reveng'd, by heaven I will, Or I will pave these plaines with the dead bodies Of our deare subjects. We have sworne thy fall: That oathes thy death, our rage thy funerall.

_Nav_. Heare our excuse.

_Bur_. We will not credit ayre. --Peter, watch Rodorick: when the prince is gone Tell him Ide speake with him.

_Pet_.--Enough, tis done.

_Bur_. Navar, this setting Sun, which sees our wrong, Shall e're his morrowes beames gui[l]de the proud East, View _Himens_ rites turnd to a tragick feast. [_Exit Burbon_.

_Nav_. His anger beares him hence. Young prince of France, Since, to reduce our enmity to love And thereby like a fayre and lovely Bryde To mary peace to France, we are content To bring the sea-tost barke of your affects, Halfe shipwrackt with the tempest of these wars, To their desired port, as we agreed, Go to your father and informe him thus: If personally heele view our friendly Tents And seale these Articles of peace proposde, This night you shall be troth-plight to our child.

_Phil_. Were it to search the furthest Northern clime Where frosty Hyems with an ycie Mace Strikes dead all living things, Ide find it out, And borrowing fire from those fayre sunny eyne Thaw Winters frost and warme that dead cold clime: But this impose is nothing, honour'd King. Ile to my father and conduct him hither; For whilst my soule is parted from her sight This earth is hell, this day a tedious night. Come, Rodorick, you shall beare me company.

[_Exeunt Phil. Pet. & Rod_.

_Pet_. He shall not, for Ile stay him instantly.

_Nav_. 'Twere pity to keepe two such loves asunder. Daughter, you & your Ladies to your tent And deck you richly to receive the prince.

[_Exit Bella_.

_Enter Pemb., after him Ferd_.

My Lord of Pembrooke, happily returnd! How doth our sonne? See where he comes himselfe. Speake, boy: how spedst thou with fayre Katherine?

_Ferd_. I know not how.--Is trothlesse Pembrooke there?

_Nav_. Be not dismayd; at length sheele pity thee. Sonne, bid our Officers adorne our Court In her chiefe glory, for this happy night Shall set a period to this smarting war. Your sister shalbe troth-plight to Prince Philip, And France and we made friends about it then. Pembrooke, have you the charge to see our Captaines Prepare a martiall welcome to the King. Ile not be idle: since Navar was crownd Our heart with so much joy did ne're abound. [_Exit Navar_.

_Fer_. Nor mine with so much hate. Pembrooke, a word.

_Pem_. What wills your Grace?

_Fer_. That Pembrooke is a villayne. Looke not so strange: I speake it; not your friend; But hee that in his soule hath sworne thine end.

_Pem_. A villayne? and my death? I am amaz'd: Art thou awake, or is all this a dreame.

_Fer_. A dreame of death. Meet me to morrow morning, As thou art Pembrooke and a Gentleman, By yon fayre River side which parts our Camps. You know the place: come armde, and so farewell.

_Pem_. Deare friend.

_Fer_. Push! meet me.

_Pem_. Ferdinand, I will.