Lew. Are we intrapt, Navar?
Rod. Feare not. On yonder hill, whose lofty head
Orelookes the under-valleyes, Royall Burbon,
Attended by ten thousand Souldiers,
Craves peace and faire accord with mighty Fraunce.
Nav. Burbon that was the ruyne of my Child! Summon our forces straight and charge the slave.
Lew. What meanes the king of Fraunce?
Rod. To joyne with him.
Nav. What? with a Traytor and a murtherer?
Lew. He did a deed of merit and of fame,
Poysoned the Sister of a ravisher,
A Tarquin, an incestuous Tereus,
And our poore Child the wronged Philomell.
Arayne our Battailes straight and joyne with Burbon.
Nav. Heare what wee'le urge.
Lew. Speake then in warre and death: In other termes our rage will spend no breath.
Nav. And we will speake so lowd that heaven it selfe
Shall echo with the clangor. Both our children
Weele race from our remembrance, and advance
No other thought but how to plague proud France.
Conjoyne with Burbon! e're three suns shall set
In the vast kingdome of Oceanus,
In a pitcht field weele meet the king of Fraunce
And that false traytor Duke.