Lew.  Navar, thou dar’st not.

Nav.  Now by Saynt Denis and our Grandsire’s tombe Weele meet thee.

Lew.  Welcome.  O bring valiant men, Weel think on nought but graves & tombs till then.

[Exeunt.

Rod.  Ha, ha!  I laugh to see these kings at jarr. 
How civill discord, like a raging floud
Swelling above her banks, shall drowne this land
Whilst Rodoricke on her ruines builds his hopes. 
The king of Fraunce, through my suggestion,
Thinks Katherine his daughter ravished,
Who onely, winged with love, is fled the Campe. 
Pembrooke and Ferdinand, in mutual strife,
Slayne by eche other doth confirme my words
And for revenge whets keene the two Kings swords.

[Exit.

Actus Quartus.

[SCENE 1.]

Enter Pembrooke armde and the Forrester.

Pem.  I thank thee, Forrester, whose rough grown walks,
Wild in aspect, afford more courtesy
Then places smoother for civility. 
My life, redeemd by thy industrious hand,
Remaynes in love and duty bound to thee.

For.  Fayre Knight, prevention of sad death by health More joyes my soule then thanks or rich reward.  But is your armour easy? sits it well?

Pem.  I never in my life was better fitted. 
This should be that unlucky fatall place
Where causlesse hate drew bloud from Ferdinand. 
Behold the grasse:  a purple register
Still blusheth in remembrance of our fight. 
Why wither not these trees, those herbs and plants? 
And every neighbour branch droup out their grief? 
Poore soules, they do, and have wept out their sap. 
Yet I have paid no duety to my friend. 
Where is the Tombe I wild you to erect?

For.  See, valiant knight, proportiond and set up As well as my poore skill would suffer mee:  And heere his picture hangs.

Pem.  You have done well: 
Yon hand I see’s a perfect Architect
In sorrowes building.  Once more let suffice
I quite your painfull travell but with thanks. 
Now leave me to my selfe, for here I vow
To spend the remnant of my haples dayes. 
No knight nor Prince shall ever passe this way
Before his tongue acknowledge Ferdinand
The faythfullst lover and the lovingst friend
The world contaynes.  Ile have his Sepulcher,
As yet but naked and ungarnished,
E’re many dayes hang richer with the spoyles
And vanquisht Trophyes of proud passengers
Then was the Romans wealthy Capitoll. 
So, gentle Forrester, bequeath thy prayers
In my assistance:  that is all I crave.

For.  The God of power give power unto your arme That you may prove victorious-fortunate.