For. Fayre Knight, prevention of sad death by health More joyes my soule then thanks or rich reward. But is your armour easy? sits it well?
Pem. I never in my life was better fitted.
This should be that unlucky fatall place
Where causlesse hate drew bloud from Ferdinand.
Behold the grasse: a purple register
Still blusheth in remembrance of our fight.
Why wither not these trees, those herbs and plants?
And every neighbour branch droup out their grief?
Poore soules, they do, and have wept out their sap.
Yet I have paid no duety to my friend.
Where is the Tombe I wild you to erect?
For. See, valiant knight, proportiond and set up As well as my poore skill would suffer mee: And heere his picture hangs.
Pem. You have done well:
Yon hand I see's a perfect Architect
In sorrowes building. Once more let suffice
I quite your painfull travell but with thanks.
Now leave me to my selfe, for here I vow
To spend the remnant of my haples dayes.
No knight nor Prince shall ever passe this way
Before his tongue acknowledge Ferdinand
The faythfullst lover and the lovingst friend
The world contaynes. Ile have his Sepulcher,
As yet but naked and ungarnished,
E're many dayes hang richer with the spoyles
And vanquisht Trophyes of proud passengers
Then was the Romans wealthy Capitoll.
So, gentle Forrester, bequeath thy prayers
In my assistance: that is all I crave.
For. The God of power give power unto your arme That you may prove victorious-fortunate.
Pem. Farewell, kind host.
[Exit Forester.
And now let me embrace
This empty Monument of my lost friend.
Oh! wer't so happy to enshrine his bones
How blest should Pembrooke be! but they are torne
By the fierce savadge Woolfe whose filthy mawe
Is made an unfit grave to bury him.
But, if (without offence) I may desire it,
I wish his soule from Paradise may see
How well his name is kept in memorie.
These eyes that saw him bleed have wept for him,
This heart devisde his harme hath sigh'd for him,
And now this hand, that with ungentle force
Depryv'd his life, shall with repentant service
Make treble satisfaction to his soule.
Fortune, thou dost me wrong to suffer me
So long uncombatted: I prythee send
Some stubborne knight, some passenger,
Whose stout controuling stomack will refuse
To yield to my prescription but by force.
I hate this idle rest of precious time.
Enter Kathar.
How now? derid'st thou my devotion, goddesse,
Thou sendst a woman to incounter me?
Henceforth Ile hold thee for a fayned name
And no disposer of my Christian hopes.
But, soft; I know that face: oh, I! tis she
Was unjust cause of all my misery.
Kath. Long have I wandred with unquiet mind
To find my Pembrook. That they fought, I heare;
That they were wounded both to death, I heare;
But whether cu'rde or dead I cannot heare,
Nor lives there any (if deceasde) can tell
Within what place their bodies are interr'd.
Since therefore all my travell is in vayne,
Here will I take a truce with former care.
This cursed nook was that unlucky plot
Where cursed Ferdinand did kill my love.
What knight is this? Ile question him: perhaps
He can resolve me where my Pembrooke is.
—Joy and good fortune, sir, attend your state.
Pem. Your wishes come too late. What seeke you, Madam?