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I am a friar of the Order of the Jacobines,
KING. Brother of Navarre, I sorrow much,
Nav. It is enough if that Navarre may be
KING. Thanks to my kingly brother of Navarre : Then there he'll lie before Lutetia's walls, Girting this strumpet city with our siege, Till surfeiting with our afflicting arms,
She cast her hateful stomach to the earth.
NAv. What, is your highness hurt? KING. Yes, Navarre, but not to death, I hope. Nav. God shield your grace from such a sudden death ! Go, call a surgeon hither straight. KING. What irreligious Pagans' parts be these, Of such as hold them of the holy church! Take hence that damned villain from my sight. EPEa. Ah! had your highness let him live, We might have punish'd him for his deserts. KING. Sweet Epernoune, all rebels under heav'n Shall take example by his punishment, How they bear arms against their sovereign. Go, call the English agent hither straight; I'll send my sister England news of this, And give her warning of her treach'rous foes. • Enter a SURGEoN. NA v. Pleaseth your grace to let the surgeon search your wound? KING. The wound, I warrant you, is deep, my lord: Search, surgeon, and resolve me what thou see'st. [The surgeon searches. Enter the ENGL1sh AG ENT. 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 wrack; And antichristian kingdom falls.
These bloody hands shall tear his triple crown,
again, 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 I
KING. Oh! curse him not, since 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. NA v. Surgeon, why say'st thou so? The king may live. KING. O, no, Navarre, thou must be king of France. Nav. Long may you live, and still be king of France. EPER. Or else, die Epernoune. KING. Sweet Epernoune, 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 crowu, And may’t ne'er end in blood, as mine hath done. Weep not, sweet Navarre, but revenge my death. Ah! Epernoune, is this thy love to me? Henry, thy king, wipes off these childish tears, And bids thee whet thy sword on Sextus' bones, That it may keenly slice the Catholics. He loves me not the best that sheds most tears, But he that makes most lavish of his blood. Fire Paris, where these treach'rous 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 to revenge his death,