Kath.  That ruthlesse mind, that iron savage heart,
So greatly loved and so little loving,
Breathes in this brest; ’twas I returnd disdaine
For deepe affection, scorne for loyalty,
And now compassionlesse shall pine my selfe. 
Oh, Ferdinand, forgive me, Ferdinand: 
Injoyne me any penance for that wrong,
Say I shall tread a tedious pilgrimage
To furtherest Palestine, and I will do it. 
But peace, fond woman! these exclaimes are vaine: 
Thy Ferdinand is dead and cannot heare,
As thou wast sometimes deafe and wouldst not heare.

Pem.  A just reward.—­Come, Madam, have you done?  Give me the picture I may hang it up.

Kath.  Oh take it not away:  since I have lost
The substance, suffer me to keep the shaddow. 
Me thinks, so long as this is in my hand,
I claspe my Ferdinand between mine armes;
So long as I behold this lively forme,
So long am I refreshed by his smiles,
So long, me thinks, I heare him speak to me. 
Knew I the Paynter drew this counterfeyt
I would reward him with a mynt of gold.

Pem.  If such a pleasure you receyve by this,
I tell you, Madam, I shall shortly have
His whole proportion cut in Alabaster,
Armd as he was when he encountred here,
Which kneeling shall be set upon his tombe.

Kath.  On that condition I will gather flowers
And once a day come straw them at his feet,
And once a day pay tribute of choyce thanks
To you the furtherer of my happinesse: 
Till then I place the picture where it was.

    Enter Clowne and Bellamira.

Clow.  Come on, Madam; me thinks now a maske would do well.  But I perceyve your drift, I smell your policy; you think a bold face hath no need of a black mask.  Shall I tell you what you look like?  A broyld herring or a tortur’de Image made of playster worke.

Bel.  So, sirra, you may scoffe my misery.

Pem.  Still haunted with these women! are men vanisht?  Or what occasion leaves the Realme of Fraunce So voyd and empty of adventurous knights?

Clow.  Out of peradventure, Madam, the ghost of Saint George is come out of England to see what hospitality S. Denis keeps in Fraunce.

Pem.  Poore Bellamira, I lament thy state But I must still suppresse my discontent.  —­What are you, so deformed with lothsome spots?  And what that Anticke keeps you company?

Clow.  Anticke; thou lyest:  and thou wert a knight of ginger-bread I am no Anticke.  The whole parish where I was borne will sweare that since the raigne of Charlemain there was not a better face bred or brought up amongst them.

Pem.  Away, ye russeting—­

Kath.  Have patience, Knight:  how ever thus deform’d,
This Lady is the daughter of Navar. 
Madam, it joyes me I have met you heere
Though much laments me of your heavy plight. 
There needs no repetition of your wrong: 
I know the villayne Burbon did the deed,
Whom my incensed brother will revenge.