that they are slayne.

_Clow_. O Lord, then let mee turne my selfe into a Ballad and mourne
for them?

_Kath_. Thou angrest me with jesting at my sorrow.
Hence from my sight! my heart is full of griefe
And it will breake, the burthen is so great.

_Clow_. Goe from your sight? then let me goe out of your company,
for I had as leeve leave your sight as your company. Is this my reward
for watching and watching? Oh, Mistris, doe not kill mee with
unkindnesse[137]: I shall, I shall--

_Kath_. What shall you?

_Clow_. Weepe out mine eyes and fill the holes with salt water.

_Kath_. I prythee leave me; I am not displeasd,
But fayne would vent my sorrowe from my heart.
Hold, take my purse, spend that and leave my presence.
Goe everywhere; enquire my Pembrooke out,
And if thou bringst me to his breathlesse truncke
I will reward thee with a treble gift.

_Clow_. Well, I were best bee going, now I am so fayrely offred.
Mistris, your reward hath stopt my eares and entic'de my legs to be
walking. Farewell, I will goe, God knows whither, to seeke and to finde
both and neyther. Farewell, sweet Mistris. [_Exit_.

_Kath_. O Pembrooke, let me kneele unto thy bloud:
And yet I know not whether't be thy bloud,
Save that my soule by a divine instinct
Tells me it is the treasure of thy veynes.
If thou beest dead, thou mirrour of all men,
I vow to dye with thee: this field, this grove,
Shall be my receptacle till my last;
My pillow shall be made a banke of mosse,
And what I drinke the silver brooke shall yeeld.
No other campe nor Court will Katharine have
Till fates do limit her a common grave.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Fraunce, Navar, Philip, Flaunders, Thomasin, and attendants_.

_Nav_. Our daughter fled? when? whither? which way? how?

_Tho_. I know not.

_Phil_. Bellamira, my lives joy!
Upon those pinnyons that support her flight
Hovers my heart; you beare away my soule.
Turne, turne agayn, and give this earthly frame
Essentiall power, which for thine absence dyes.
Thou art the sweet of sweets, the joy of joyes;
For thee was Philip borne. O turne agayne,
And Philip is the blessedest of men.

_Lew_. We are glad she's gone though we dissemble it.
--Sonne, bridle this affection, cease these laments:
She did not value them.

_Nav_. Lewis, she did,
Till savage hate that shape disfigured.

_Phil_. O she was worthy to be Queene of heaven;
Her beauty, e're it suffred violence,
Was like the Sunne in his Meridia