Kath.  How sweetly doth the Earle of Pembrooke speake!  Now, trust me, I am ravisht with his voyce.

Lew.  What says Navar?  What, is [i]t war or peace?

Na.  A truce for three moneths, so it please your Highnes,
During which time our children shall have leave
With Drum and Trumpet to surveigh the Campe,
To court our daughters and to feast themselves
As fits the sonnes of honourable foes. 
And if it prove a match betweene them both,
There end all difference:  Ile bequeath my Crowne
As a rich offering to their nuptiall Rites.

Lew.  Here, strike the truce upon my kingly hand,
Which is as surely ratified in this
As by the testimonial of a world. 
So now for three moneths space all warres surcease: 
Our thoughts are wholy fixt on love and peace.
          
                                 [Exe.

Manent Rodorick and Burbon.

Rod.  Zounds, here’s a truce made up by miracle!

Burb.  Ile crosse it by a wily stratageme.

Rod.  What stratageme?

Bur.  By love to Bellamira. 
O could I dive into the Prince’s heart
By any insinuation ne’re so base,
How easily might I effect my plot
To make the kingdome of Navarre mine owne. 
’Twere but a dram or so unto the sonne,
And a small thing would send the old man hence. 
What, noble Rodorick? to gayne a Crowne
A Duke would doe much.

Rod.  More then poyson two.  But you, my Lord, forget your selfe too farre.  Know you to whom you have disclosde your heart?

Bur.  Why, to the Duke of Orleance.

Rod.  The deare friend Of Lewes the French King.

Burb.  King me no Kings. 
Although we seeme to be of severall sides,
Rodorick, we love together like true friends. 
This Truce gives ayme to our intention: 
Assist me (worthy Orleance) to effect
First my desired love and next the Crowne.

Rod. Peter de Lions is your Lordships servant,
A boone companion and a lusty knave. 
He is in love with Bellamiraes mayd,
And by that love he may bestead your Highnesse
More then your best friends in your best designes. 
Call him forth.

Burb.  What! Peter!

    Enter Peter.

Pet.  Here, my Lord.

Burb.  Why dost thou looke so wildly?

Pet.  Not with drinke Nor yet with rage.

Rod.  His lookes are wild with love.

Pet.  With love, surreverence[110]? can there be a face
In all the world patcht up with eyes and lips,
A forhead and a payre of crimson cheeks,
To make me doat on, to make me looke wild?

Rod.  Come, come, tis knowne that you love Thomasin.