Phil.  O she was worthy to be Queene of heaven;
Her beauty, e’re it suffred violence,
Was like the Sunne in his Meridian Throne,
Too splendent for weake eyes to gaze upon. 
She was too bright before, till being hid
Under that envious cloud, it took the place
Of a darke ground to show a lovelyer face. 
That Leprosie in her seemd perfect beauty
And she did guild her imperfections o’re
With vertue, which no foule calumnious breath
Could ever soyle:  true vertues dye is such
That malice cannot stayne nor envy tuch. 
Then say not but her worth surmounts these woes.

Nav.  She griev’d to tye you to a hated bed And therefore followed Burbon for revenge.

Phil.  Bourbon! who names him? that same verball sound
Is like a thunderclap to Philips eares,
Frighting my very soule.  Sure you said Burbon,
And to that prodegie you joynd revenge,
Revenge that like a shaddow followes him. 
’Twas he that made me bankrout of all blisse,
Sude the divorce of that pure white and red
Which deckt my Bellamiraes lovely cheeks: 
And shall he scape unpunisht?

Lew.  Joyne your hands And all with us sweare vengeance on the Duke.

Phil.  Not for the world:  who prosecutes his hate On Burbon injures me; I am his foe, And none but I will work his overthrow.

Lew.  What meanes our sonne?

Phil.  To hunt him for revenge. 
The darkest angle of this universe
Shall not contayne him:  through the bounded world
Ile prosecute his flight with ceaslesse steps,
And when long travell makes them dull or faynt,
Bayting[138] them fresh with Bellamiraes wrongs,
Like Eagles they shall cut the flaxen ayre
And in an instant bring me where he is.

Lew.  Where goes our sonne?

Phil.  To hell, so that in that kingdome Fate would assertayne me to meet with Burbon.  Where ever I confront him, this shall kill him.

Nav.  Thou shalt have ayd to compasse thy revenge.

Phil.  No ayd but this strong arme.  Farewell, farewell!  Since Bellamira hath forsooke her friend, I seeke destruction (Burbon) and mine ende. [Exit.

Lew.  Stay him:  this fury will betray thy life.

Nav.  Poore king made wretched by thy daughters losse!

Lew.  Poore king made wretched by thy desperat sonne!

    Enter Messenger.

Mess.  Spend not your woes too fast, but save some teares To dew the obsequies of your dead sonne.

Nav.  What?  Ferdinand?

Mess.  Hee’s slaine by Pembrokes hands
And Pembroke left breathles by Ferdinand. 
Theire quarrell is uncertain and their bodies
By some uncivill hands convayed away,
And no inquiry can discover them.

Nav.  Our sonne slaine?  Bellamira poysoned?  Navarre, teare off these hayres and raging die.