[Enter Surgeon.]     NAVARRE. Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound. KING. The wound I warrant you is deepe my Lord, Search Surgeon and resolve me what thou seest. The Surgeon searcheth. Enter the English Agent. Agent for England, send thy mistres word, What this detested Jacobin hath done. Tell her for all this that I hope to live, Which if I doe, the Papall Monarck goes To wrack, an antechristian kingdome falles. These bloudy hands shall teare his triple Crowne, And fire accursed Rome about his eares. Ile fire his erased buildings and incense The papall towers to kisse the holy earth. Navarre, give me thy hand, I heere do sweare, To ruinate this wicked Church of Rome, That hatcheth up such bloudy practices. And heere protest eternall love to thee, And to the Queene of England especially, Whom God hath blest for hating Popery. NAVARRE. These words revive my thoughts and comfort me, To see your highnes in this vertuous minde. KING. Tell me Surgeon, shall I live? SURGEON. Alas my Lord, the wound is dangerous, For you are stricken with a poysoned knife. KING. A poysoned knife? what, shall the French king dye, Wounded and poysoned, both at once? EPERNOUNE. O that that damned villaine were alive againe, That we might torture him with some new found death.     BARTUS. He died a death too good, the devill of hell Torture his wicked soule. KING. Oh curse him not since he is dead. O the fatall poyson workes within my brest, Tell me Surgeon and flatter not, may I live? SURGEON. Alas my Lord, your highnes cannot live. NAVARRE. Surgeon, why saist thou so? the King may live. KING. Oh no Navarre, thou must be King of France. NAVARRE. Long may you live, and still be King of France. EPERNOUNE. Or else dye Epernoune. KING. Sweet Epernoune thy King must dye. My Lords, Fight in the quarrell of this valiant Prince, For he is your lawfull King and my next heire:    Valoyses lyne ends in my tragedie. Now let the house of Bourbon weare the crowne, And may it never end in bloud as mine hath done. Weep not sweet Navarre, but revenge my death. Ah Epernoune, is this thy love to me? Henry thy King wipes of these childish teares, And bids thee whet thy sword on Sextus bones, That it may keenly slice the Catholicks. He loves me not the best that sheds most teares, But he that makes most lavish of his bloud. Fire Paris where these trecherous rebels lurke. I dye Navarre, come beare me to my Sepulchre. Salute the Queene of England in my name, And tell her Henry dyes her faithfull freend. He dyes. NAVARRE. Come Lords, take up the body of the King, That we may see it 

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