Lew.  Why, the heat’s [so] great It burnes [us] in our Armour as we march.

Flaun.  It burnes the enemy as well as wee.

Bur.  It warmes our Souldiers spirits and makes them fire,
I had rather dye then, when my bloud is hot,
Be awde by counsell till it freeze like Ice: 
He is no Souldier that for feare of heat
Will suffer victory to fly the field.

Rod.  My Lord of Burbon, ye are more hot then wise.

Bur.  Rodorick, me thinkes you are very peremptory.

Rod.  It is in zeale of the generall good. 
Go to your Tent, refresh your unscorcht[144] lymmes;
There draw your battels modell, and as soone
As the coole winds have fand the burning Sunne
And made it tractable for travaylers,
Arme you and mount upon your barbed Steed,
Lead foorth your Souldiers and in good array
Charge bravely on the Army of our foe.

Lew.  The Duke of Orleance hath counseld well. 
Ile in and recreate me in my tent. 
Farewell, my Lord:  when you resolve to fight,
Proclayme your meaning by a Canons mouth
And with a volley I will answere you.

[Exeunt Lewes and Flauuders.

Bur.  If you will needs retyre, farewell, my Lord. 
Ha, Rodoricke, are not we fine Polyticians
That have so quaintly wrought the king of Fraunce
Unto our faction that he threatens warre
Against the almost reconcilde Navar?

Rod.  But this is nothing to the actes weele do. 
Come, come, my Lord, you trifle time with words: 
Sit downe, sit downe, and make your warlike plot.—­
But wherefore stand these murderous Glaves so nye?

Phil.—­Touch them not, Roderick; prythee let them stand.

Bur.  Some paper, pen, and incke.

    Enter Peter.

Pet.  My Lord.

Bur.  Post to the Master Gunner
And bid him plant his demy culverings
Against the kings pavilion.

Peter.  Presently.

Bur.  But first bring pen and incke and paper straight.

    [Peter sets pen, ink, &c., before Burbon, and exit[145]

Rodoricke, thou shalt assist mee in this plot.

Rod.  Do it your selfe, my Lord; I have a charge
Of souldiers that are very mutinous,
And long I dare not stay for feare my absence
Be cause of their revolt unto Navar.

Bur.  Then to your Souldiers:  I will to my plot.

Phil.—­Away, my Lord, leave me unto the Duke.

Rod.—­Kill you the Duke (and after Ile kill thee).
                                            [Exit Rod.

Bur.  This pen is stabbed and it will not write:  The incke that’s in the standage[146] doth looke blacke, This in my pen is turnd as red as bloud.

Phil.  The reason that the platforme[147] you would make Must by this hand be written with thy bloud.