The False One Part 6

_Ptol._ Speak (good _Ach.o.r.eus_)

_Ach._ Let indirect and crooked counsels vanish, And straight, and fair directions--

_Pho._ Speak your mind Sir.

_Ach._ Let us choose _Caesar_, (and endear him to us,) An Arbitrator in all differences Betwixt you, and your Sister; this is safe now: And will shew off, most honourable.

_Pho._ Base, Most base and poor; a servile, cold submission: Hear me, and pluck your hearts up, like stout Counsellours, Since we are sensible this _Caesar_ loathes us, And have begun our fortune with great Pompey, Be of my mind.

_Ach._ 'Tis most uncomely spoken, And if I say most bloodily, I lye not: The law of hospitality it poysons, And calls the G.o.ds in question that dwell in us, Be wise O King.

_Ptol._ I will be: go my counsellour, To _Caesar_ go, and do my humble service: To my fair Sister my commends negotiate, And here I ratifie what e're thou treat'st on.

_Ach._ Crown'd with fair peace, I go. [_Exit._

_Ptol._ My love go with thee, And from my love go you, you cruel vipers: You shall know now I am no ward, _Photinus_. [_Exit._

_Pho._ This for our service?

Princes do their pleasures, And they that serve obey in all disgraces: The lowest we can fall to, is our graves, There we shall know no diffrence: heark _Achillas_, I may do something yet, when times are ripe, To tell this raw unthankful! King.

_Achil._ _Photinus_, What e're it be I shall make one: and zealously: For better dye attempting something n.o.bly, Than fall disgraced.

_Pho._ Thou lov'st me and I thank thee. [_Exeunt._

SCENA II.

_Enter_ Antony, Dolabella, Sceva.

_Dol._ Nay there's no rowsing him: he is bewitch'd sure, His n.o.ble blood curdled, and cold within him; Grown now a womans warriour.

_Sce._ And a tall one: Studies her fortifications, and her breaches, And how he may advance his ram to batter The Bullwork of her chast.i.tie.

_Ant._ Be not too angry, For by this light, the woman's a rare woman, A Lady of that catching youth, and beauty, That unmatch'd sweetness--

_Dol._ But why should he be fool'd so?

Let her be what she will, why should his wisdom, His age, and honour--

_Ant._ Say it were your own case, Or mine, or any mans, that has heat in him: 'Tis true at this time when he has no promise Of more security than his sword can cut through, I do not hold it so discreet: but a good face, Gentlemen, And eyes that are the winningst Orators: A youth that opens like perpetual spring, And to all these, a tongue that can deliver The Oracles of Love--

_Sce._ I would you had her, With all her Oracles, and Miracles, She were fitter for your turn.

_Ant._ Would I had, _Sceva_, With all her faults too: let me alone to mend 'em, O'that condition I made thee mine heir.

_Sce._ I had rather have your black horse, than your harlots.

_Dol._ _Caesar_ writes _Sonnetts_ now, the sound of war Is grown too boystrous for his mouth: he sighs too.

_Sce._ And learns to fiddle most melodiously, And sings, 'twould make your ears p.r.i.c.k up, to hear him Gent.

Shortly she'l make him spin: and 'tis thought He will prove an admirable maker of Bonelace, And what a rare gift will that be in a General!

_Ant._ I would he could abstain.

_Sce._ She is a witch sure, And works upon him with some d.a.m.n'd inchantment.

_Dol._ How cunning she will carry her behaviours, And set her countenance in a thousand postures, To catch her ends!

_Sce._ She will be sick, well, sullen, Merry, coy, over-joy'd, and seem to dye All in one half hour, to make an a.s.se of him: I make no doubt she will be drunk too d.a.m.nably, And in her drink will fight, then she fits him.

_Ant._ That thou shouldst bring her in!

_Sce._ 'Twas my blind fortune, My Souldiers told me, by the weight 'twas wicked: Would I had carried _Milo's_ Bull a furlong, When I brought in this Cow-Calf: he has advanced me From an old Souldier, to a bawd of memory: O, that the Sons of _Pompey_ were behind him, The honour'd _Cato_, and fierce _Juba_ with 'em, That they might whip him from his wh.o.r.e, and rowze him: That their fierce Trumpets, from his wanton trances, Might shake him like an Earth-quake.

_Enter_ Septimius.

_Ant._ What's this fellow?

_Dol._ Why, a brave fellow, if we judge men by their clothes.

_Ant._ By my faith he is brave indeed: he's no commander?

_Sce._ Yes, he has a _Roman_ face, he has been at fair wars And plenteous too, and rich, his Trappings shew it.

_Sep._ And they will not know me now, they'l never know me.

Who dare blush now at my acquaintance? ha?

Am I not totally a span-new Gallant, Fit for the choycest eyes? have I not gold?

The friends.h.i.+p of the world? if they shun me now (Though I were the arrantest rogue, as I am well forward) Mine own curse, and the Devils too light on me.

_Ant._ Is't not _Septimius_?

_Sce._ Yes.

_Dol._ He that kill'd _Pompey_?

_Sce._ The same Dog, Scab; that guilded botch, that rascal.

_Dol._ How glorious villany appears in _Egypt_!

_Sep._ Gallants, and Souldiers, sure they do admire me.

_Sce._ Stand further off, thou stinkest.

_Sep._ A likely matter: These Cloaths smell mustily, do they not, Gallants?

They stink, they stink, alas poor things, contemptible.

By all the G.o.ds in _Egypt_, the perfumes That went to tr.i.m.m.i.n.g these cloathes, cost me--

_Sce._ Thou stinkest still.