Nav. What? Ferdinand?
Mess. Hee's slaine by Pembrokes hands
And Pembroke left breathles by Ferdinand.
Theire quarrell is uncertain and their bodies
By some uncivill hands convayed away,
And no inquiry can discover them.
Nav. Our sonne slaine? Bellamira poysoned? Navarre, teare off these hayres and raging die.
Enter Rodoricke.
Lew. More Tragedies at hand? what newes brings Rodoricke?
Rod. Such as will make the hearers sencelesse truncks.
Why doth your highnes in your foe-mens tents
Revell away the time and yield your person
To the knowne malice of your enemies,
Whilst in your owne tents rapine and foule lust
Graspes your fayre daughter to dishonour her?
Lew. Our daughter?
Rod. She is slily stolen from thence,
Yet none knows whither save one Sentinell,
Who doth report he heard a wretched Lady
Exclaime false Ferdinand would ravish her.
Lew. That was my child, dishonor'd by thy sonne.
Nav. You wrong him, France.