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Henry. Thanks to my kingly brother of Navarre.
Then here we'll lie before Lutetia-walls,
Girting this strumpet city with our siege,
Till, surfeiting with our afflicting arms,
She cast her hateful stomach to the earth.

Enter a Messenger.

Mes. An it please your majesty, here is a friar of the order of the Jacobins, sent from the President of Paris, that craves access unto your grace. Henry. Let him come in.

[Exit Mess. 20

Enter Friar, with a letter.

Eper. I like not this friar's look:
'Twere not amiss, my lord, if he were search'd.

Henry. Sweet Epernoun, our friars are holy men,
And will not offer violence to their king
For all the wealth and treasure of the world. —
Friar, thou dost acknowledge me thy king?

Fri. I, my good lord, and will die therein.
Henry. Then come thou near, and tell what news

thou bring'st.
Fri. My lord,
The President of Paris greets your grace,
And sends his duty by these speedy lines,
Humbly craving your gracious reply. [Gives letter.

30

1 Old ed. “Lucrecia walles,"

Henry. I'll read them, friar, and then I'll answer

thee. Fri. Sancte Jacobe, now have mercy upon me!

[Stabs the king with a knife, as he reads the

letter; and then the king gets the knife, and

kills him. Eper. O my lord, let him live a while !

Henry. No, let the villain die, and feel in hell
Just torments for his treachery.

Nav. What, is your highness hurt?
Henry. Yes, Navarre ; but not to death, I hope.
Nav. God shield your grace from such a sudden
death!

40 Go call a surgeon hither straight. [Exit an Attendant.

Henry. What irreligious pagans' parts be these,
Of such as hold them of the holy church !
Take hence that damnèd villain from my sight.

[Attendants carry out the Friar's body. Eper. Ah, had your highness let him live, We might have punish'd him to his deserts !

Henry. Sweet Epernoun, all rebels under heaven
Shall take example by his 2 punishment,
How they bear arms against their sovereign. —
Go call the English agent hither straight :

50

[Exit an Attendant. I'll send my sister England news of this, And give her warning of her treacherous foes.

i Old ed. “ Jacobus."

2 Old ed. "their."

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Enter a Surgeon.
Nav. Pleaseth your grace to let the surgeon search

your wound?
Henry. The wound, I warrant ye, is deep, my lord.-
Search, surgeon, and resolve me what thou see'st.

[The Surgeon searches the wound.

60

Enter the English Agent.
Agent for England, send thy mistress word
What this detested Jacobin hath done.
Tell her, for all this, that I hope to live;
Which if I do, the papal monarch goes
To wreck, and antichristian kingdom falls :
These bloody hands shall tear his triple crown,
And fire accursèd Rome about his ears;
I'll fire his crazed buildings, and enforce
The papal towers to kiss the lowly earth.
Navarre, give me thy hand : I here do swear
To ruinate that wicked Church of Rome,
That hatcheth up such bloody practices;
And here protest eternal love to thee,
And to the Queen of England specially,
Whom God hath bless'd for hating papistry.

70 Nav. These words revive my thoughts, and comfort me, To see your highness in this virtuous mind.

1 Dyce's correction for incense ... to kiss the holy earth." He compares Edward II. (I. 4, II. 100, 101):

“I'll fire thy crazed buildings, and enforce

The papal towers to kiss the lowly ground.”

Henry. Tell me, surgeon, shall I live?

Surg. Alas, my lord, the wound is dangerous, For you are stricken with a poison'd knife ! Henry. A poison'd knife! what, shall the French king

die,
Wounded and poison’d both at once?

Eper. O, that
That damnèd villain were alive again,

79 That we might torture him with some new-found death!

Bar. He died a death too good :
The devil of hell torture his wicked soul !

Henry. Ah, curse him not, sith he is dead !-
O, the fatal poison works within my breast !-
Tell me, surgeon, and flatter not—may I live?

Surg. Alas, my lord, your highness cannot live!
Nav. Surgeon, why say'st thou so? the king may live.
Henry. O no, Navarre ! thou must be king of France.
Nav. Long may you live, and still be king of France !
Eper. Or else, die Epernoun !

90
Henry. Sweet Epernoun, thy king must die.—My lords,
Fight in the quarrel of this valiant prince,
For he's your lawful king, and my next heir ;
Valois's line ends in my tragedy.
Now let the house of Bourbon wear the crown;
And
may

it ne'er end in blood as mine hath done!
Weep not, sweet Navarre, but revenge my death.—
Ah, Epernoun, is this thy love to me?
Henry, thy king, wipes off these childish tears,
And bids thee whet thy sword on Sixtus' bones,
That it may keenly slice the Catholics.

100

He loves me not (the most 1] that sheds most tears,
But he that makes most lavish of his blood.
Fire Paris, where these treacherous rebels lurk. —
I die, Navarre: come bear me to my sepulchre.
Salute the Queen of England in my name,
And tell her Henry dies her faithful friend. [Dies.

Nav. Come, lords, take up the body of the king,
That we may see it honourably interr'd :
And then I vow so 2 to revenge his death,
As Rome, and all these popish prelates there,
Shall curse the time that e'er Navarre was king,
And ruled in France by Henry's fatal death.

[They march out, with the body of KING HENRY

lying on four men's shoulders, with a dead
march, drawing weapons on the ground.

IIO

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