Bur. What words can satisfy so great a wrong? Have you not, with consent of all your Lords, Promis'd your daughter to this generous prince?
Nav. Their true love forst us to it.
Bur. True love? 'tis faynd.
Phil. Ha, Burbon!
Bel. Gentle Philip—
Phil. With my sword Ile prove my love unfayned, thee a false Lord.
Bur. This like a Sanctuary frees thy toung And gives thee childish liberty of speech, Which els would fawne and crouch at Burbons frowne.
Phil. Now by St. Denis—
Bur. Ile not chat with boyes:
Navar, to thee I speak. Thy daughters looks,
Like the North Star to the Sea-tost Mariners,
Hath brought me through all dangers, made me turne
Our royall Palace to this stage of death,
Our state and pleasure to a bloudy Campe,
And with the strength and puissance of our force
To lift thy falling and decayed state
Even to her pristine glory. In thy quarrell,
Burbon hath set himselfe against his king
And soyl'd his greatnesse with a Traytors name,
Now when our worth expected rich reward,
Fayre Bellamira, wonder of her time,
Must Philip have her?
Phil. Burbon, she is mine.