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 s.e.xtus 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 honourably interde: And then I vow so to revenge his death, That Rome and all those popish Prelates there, Shall curse the time that ere Navarre was King, And rulde in France by Henries fatall death.

They march out with the body of the King, lying on foure mens shoulders with a dead march, drawing weapons on the ground.

FINIS.