Pem.  Thou wer’t a party in all Burbons wrongs.

Ferd.  Falsely term’d Ferdinand a Ravisher.

Pem.  Set discord ’twixt these kings.

Phil.  Practised my death.

Pem.  Villayne for this our swords shall stop thy breath.

Ferd.  Stand not to argue, let’s all runne at him.

Phil.  Now as you love my love or prize mine honour,
Touch not the Traytor; he is Philips foe,
And none but I must work his overthrow. 
Thrice in the battell he was rescued from me,
But now hee’s fallen into the Lyons paw
From whence the whole world cannot ransome him. 
Preservers of my life, heroick friends,
Be you my safety; keepe the souldyers off,
Whilst in the midst by fayre and equall fight
I send this Traytor to eternal night.

Ferd.  By heaven agreed.

Pem.  Heere Pembrooke takes his stand:  Come Fraunce and all the world, I will not start Till Philips knightly sword pierce Rodoricks hart.

Rod.  Accurst, I am betrayd, incompast round; Now lyfe and hope and state must kisse the ground.

Phil.  Rodorick, thou seest, all wayes are stopt to flie; Be desperat then, fight bravely, and so die.

Alarum:  they fight.  Enter to Pembrooke Navar, Bowyer, and Souldiers:  to Ferdinand Fraunce, Flaunders, and Souldiers:  they fight and keepe them backe.  Rodoricke would scape; still kept in the midst, and kild by Philip.

Phil.  Now are his trecheries repaid with death.  Philip and Pembrooke, sound your retreats With better hope; in him all hatred ends:  The kings will now love peace and soone be friends.

    Exeunt.  Enter Peter wounded, Bowyer following.

Bow.  Zounds, never runne for the matter; a scratcht face can not serve your turne, we must have bloudy noses.  Stand on your gard; and I do not make haggasse puddings of your guttes, Ile never dominier in the long Alleyes agayne.

Pet.  Cymnel, Ile crack you for this.  Ile teach you to deale with Peter de Lions, and that without prolixitie.

Bow.  Do; have at you in earnest.  S. George, you rogue!

    Alarum; fight.  Bowyer kills him.

Bow.  So, there’s for your prolixities, there’s for Thomasin.  The Thornbackly slave! and he were made of anything but gristles, I am a pumpian.  ’Shart he had no mettle in him; yet how the villayne crak’t[152] and dominierd when he was living:  ah, sirra, never gryn for the matter, tis Captayne Bowyer that speaks it.  When thou meetst the great Devill, commend me to him and say I sent him thee for a new years gift.  And there’s one Sarlaboys to, as arrant a blood-sucker and as notable a coward as ever drew weapon in a bawdy house, he carryes my marke about him.  If Dicke Bowyer be not writ a bountifull benefactor in hell for my good deeds in sending thither such Cannibals, I am a rabbit sucker[153]:  yet I scorne to vaunt of my deeds, too.  They sound a retreat.  Farewell, Peter, and learne hereafter what it is to be rivall to an English gentleman, Cavaliero Bowyer, one of the nine worthyes.