Clow.  Have they not slayne one another and buryed themselves?

Kath.  Peace, foole; [i]t is too sure that they are slayne.

Clow.  O Lord, then let mee turne my selfe into a Ballad and mourne for them?

Kath.  Thou angrest me with jesting at my sorrow.  Hence from my sight! my heart is full of griefe And it will breake, the burthen is so great.

Clow.  Goe from your sight? then let me goe out of your company, for I had as leeve leave your sight as your company.  Is this my reward for watching and watching?  Oh, Mistris, doe not kill mee with unkindnesse[137]:  I shall, I shall—­

Kath.  What shall you?

Clow.  Weepe out mine eyes and fill the holes with salt water.

Kath.  I prythee leave me; I am not displeasd,
But fayne would vent my sorrowe from my heart. 
Hold, take my purse, spend that and leave my presence. 
Goe everywhere; enquire my Pembrooke out,
And if thou bringst me to his breathlesse truncke
I will reward thee with a treble gift.

Clow.  Well, I were best bee going, now I am so fayrely offred.  Mistris, your reward hath stopt my eares and entic’de my legs to be walking.  Farewell, I will goe, God knows whither, to seeke and to finde both and neyther.  Farewell, sweet Mistris. [Exit.

Kath.  O Pembrooke, let me kneele unto thy bloud: 
And yet I know not whether’t be thy bloud,
Save that my soule by a divine instinct
Tells me it is the treasure of thy veynes. 
If thou beest dead, thou mirrour of all men,
I vow to dye with thee:  this field, this grove,
Shall be my receptacle till my last;
My pillow shall be made a banke of mosse,
And what I drinke the silver brooke shall yeeld. 
No other campe nor Court will Katharine have
Till fates do limit her a common grave.

[SCENE 3.]

    Enter Fraunce, Navar, Philip, Flaunders, Thomasin, and attendants.

Nav.  Our daughter fled? when? whither? which way? how?

Tho.  I know not.

Phil.  Bellamira, my lives joy! 
Upon those pinnyons that support her flight
Hovers my heart; you beare away my soule. 
Turne, turne agayn, and give this earthly frame
Essentiall power, which for thine absence dyes. 
Thou art the sweet of sweets, the joy of joyes;
For thee was Philip borne.  O turne agayne,
And Philip is the blessedest of men.

Lew.  We are glad she’s gone though we dissemble it.  —­Sonne, bridle this affection, cease these laments:  She did not value them.

Nav.  Lewis, she did, Till savage hate that shape disfigured.