Nav. And this our fame. Let's mangle them with swords.
Pem. Take truce a while with rage: heare what we'le urge.
This knight slew Burbon, this inforst you fly;
Therefore you hate them and for hate they die.
Since then true vertue is disfigured,
Desert trod downe, and their heroick worth
In justice doomd on Traytors merits Death,
Behold these two, which thousands could not daunt,
But your ingratitude, on bended knee
Yeeld up their swoords to bide your tyranny.
'Twas he kild Burbon; if you love him dead,
Shew it by paring off this valiant head:
Do you the like. To this revenge apace:
They feare not threats, and scorne to beg for grace.
Lew. And they shall find none.
Nav. Knights, tryumph in death: We are your headesmen, kings shall stop your breath.
They take off their helmets.
Lew. Philip, my sonne!
Nav. Young Ferdinand my joy!
Pem. Call them not sonnes, whom you would fayne destroy.
Nav. Hold not our age too long in deepe suspect. Art thou [my] Ferdinand?
Lew. And thou [my] Philip?