at Paris.
Navarre.
What, is your highnes hurt?
King.
Yes Navarre, but not to death I hope.
Navarre.
God shield your grace from such a sodaine death:
Goe call a surgeon hether strait.
King.
What irreligeous Pagans partes be these,
Of such as holde them of the holy church?
Take hence that damned villaine from my sight.
Eper.
Ah, had your highnes let him live,
We might have punisht him to his deserts.
King.
Sweet Epernoune all Rebels under heaven, shall take example by their punishment, how they beare armes against their soveraigne.
Goe call the English Agent hether strait,
Ile send my sister England newes of this,
And give her warning of her trecherous foes.
Navarre.
Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound.
King.
The wound I warrant ye 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
