Ferd.  And we be friendly Brothers.

Phil.  True.

Ferd.  Farewell.

[Exeunt Philip and Rodoricke.

Pem.  Pity such true love, which like blessed seed
Sowne in such fertile soyle his princely brest,
By the rough stormy brow and winters hate
Of adverse parents should be timelesse nipt
And dye e’re it attayne maturity. 
For I have heard the Princesse whom he serves
Is hotely courted by the Duke of Burbon,
Who to effect his choyce hath in these warres
Furnisht your father with a gallant power;
His love may haply then disable Philip.

Fer.  O no; my father doth affect the Prince: 
Besides, my sister’s heart is so combin’d
To his in perfect love that Burbon’s hate
Nor all the world that knot can separate. 
Then sorrow not for him, but turne the streame
Of gentle pity on thy wretched friend
Within whose bosome love hath kindled fire
So ardent that the flames will bury me.
Philip is throned in my sister’s eyes,
But in my love disdayne and hatred lyes.

Pem.  Doth she not pay true kindnesse with the like?

Fer.  As stepdames orphanes, night the cleer-fac’t day,
So doth she hate me and returne my woes
Like a steeld Anvil backward on my selfe. 
She is all hate, yet such a lovely foe
That I must kisse the sword that wounds me so.

Pem.  Interre these thoughts, this is her fathers tent:  Drum, give a friendly summons to the king.

Fer.  Forbeare a while (deare Pembroke):  by our vowes
Which in the booke of heaven are registered,
By all the rightes of friendship, by that love
Thou bear’st thy native Country, I conjure thee
This day to be the Trumpet of my worth;
To speake the passions of thy grieved friend
To Katharine’s ears, till those pure ivory gates,
Pearst with the volley of thy battring words,
Give way to my laments to touch her heart. 
For this have I extracted thee from many,
Made thee my fellow Pilgrim to her shrine,
Knowing thy thoughts from loves Religion free: 
When thy prayers fayle thy tongue may plead for me.

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