SCENE XIII.

_Enter_[392] KING CHARLES, _supported by the_ KING OF NAVARRE _and_ EPERNOUN; CATHERINE _the Queen-Mother, the_ CARDINAL OF LORRAINE, PLESHÉ,[393] _and_ Attendants.

_Char._ O, let me stay, and rest me here awhile! A griping pain hath seiz'd upon my heart; A sudden pang, the messenger of death.

_Cath._ O, say not so! thou kill'st thy mother's heart.

_Char._ I must say so; pain forceth me complain.

_Nav._ Comfort yourself, my lord, and have no doubt But God will sure restore you to your health.

_Char._ O no, my loving brother of Navarre! I have deserved a scourge, I must confess; Yet is their[394] patience of another sort 10 Than to misdo the welfare of their king: God grant my nearest friends may prove no worse! O, hold me up, my sight begins to fail, My sinews shrink, my brains turn upside down; My heart doth break: I faint and die. [_Dies._

_Cath._ Art thou dead, sweet son? speak to thy mother! O no, his soul is fled from out his breast, And he nor hears nor sees us what we do! My lords, what resteth there now to be done, But that we presently despatch ambassadors 20 To Poland, to call Henry back again, To wear his brother's crown and dignity? Epernoun, go see it presently be done, And bid him come without delay to us.

_Eper._ Madam, I will. [_Exit._

_Cath._ And now, My lords, after these funerals be done, We will, with all the speed we can, provide For Henry's coronation from Polony. Come, let us take his body hence. 30 [_The body of_ KING CHARLES _is borne out; and_ _exeunt all except the_ KING OF NAVARRE _and_ PLESHÉ.

_Nav._ And now, Pleshé,[395] whilst that these broils do last, My opportunity may serve it fit To steal from France, and hie me to my home, For there's no safety in this realm for me: And now that Henry is call'd from Poland, It is my due, by just succession; And therefore, as speedily as I can perform, I'll muster up an army secretly, For fear that Guise, join'd with the king of Spain, Might seek[396] to cross me in mine enterprise. 40 But God, that always doth defend the right, Will show his mercy, and preserve us still.

_Pleshé._ The virtues of our true religion Cannot but march, with many graces more, Whose army shall discomfort all your foes, And, at the length, in Pampelonia[397] crown (In spite of Spain, and all the popish power, That holds it from your highness wrongfully) Your majesty her rightful lord and sovereign.

_Nav._ Truth, Pleshé; and God so prosper me in all, 50 As I intend to labour for the truth, And true profession of his holy word! Come, Pleshé, let's away whilst time doth serve. [_Exeunt._