Fri. My lord, The President of Paris greets your grace,30 And sends his duty by these speedy lines, Humbly craving your gracious reply. [Gives letter.
Henry. I'll read them, friar, and then I'll answer thee.
Fri. Sancte Jacobe, [428] now have mercy upon me! [Stabs the king with a knife, as he reads the letter; and then the king gets the knife, and kills him.
Eper. O my lord, let him live a while!
Henry. No, let the villain die, and feel in hell Just torments for his treachery.
Nav. What, is your highness hurt?
Henry. Yes, Navarre; but not to death, I hope.
Nav. God shield your grace from such a sudden death!—40 Go call a surgeon hither straight. [Exit an Attendant.
Henry. What irreligious pagans' parts be these, Of such as hold them of the holy church! Take hence that damnèd villain from my sight. [Attendants carry out the Friar's body.
Eper. Ah, had your highness let him live, We might have punish'd him to his deserts!