Beaumont Fletchers Works, vol 2 | Page 3

point 'em, As arrows from a Tartars bow, and
speeding, Dare I do this, and fear an enemy? Fear your great Master?
yours? or yours?
Dem. O Hercules! Who saies you do, Sir? Is there any thing In these

mens faces, or their Masters actions, Able to work such wonders?
Cel. Now he speaks: O I could dwell upon that tongue for ever.
Dem. You call 'em Kings, they never wore those Royalties, Nor in the
progress of their lives arriv'd yet At any thought of King: Imperial
dignities, And powerful God-like actions, fit for Princes They can no
more put on, and make 'em sit right, Than I can with this mortal hand
hold Heaven: Poor petty men, nor have I yet forgot The chiefest
honours time, and merit gave 'em: Lisimachus your Master, at the best,
His highest, and his hopeful'st Dignities Was but grand-master of the
Elephants; Seleuchus of the Treasure; and for Ptolomey, A thing not
thought on then, scarce heard of yet, Some Master of Ammunition: and
must these men--
Cel. What a brave confidence flows from his spirit! O sweet young
man!
Dem. Must these, hold pace with us, And on the same file hang their
memories? Must these examine what the wills of Kings are? Prescribe
to their designs, and chain their actions To their restraints? be friends,
and foes when they please? Send out their Thunders, and their menaces,
As if the fate of mortal things were theirs? Go home good men, and tell
your Masters from us, We do 'em too much honour to force from 'em
Their barren Countries, ruin their vast Cities, And tell 'em out of love,
we mean to leave 'em (Since they will needs be Kings) no more to tread
on, Than they have able wits, and powers to manage, And so we shall
befriend 'em. Ha! what does she there?
Emb. This is your answer King?
Ant. 'Tis like to prove so.
Dem. Fie, sweet, what makes you here?
Cel. Pray ye do not chide me.
Dem. You do your self much wrong and me. I feel my fault which only

was committed Through my dear love to you: I have not seen ye, And
how can I live then? I have not spoke to ye--
Dem. I know this week ye have not; I will redeem all. You are so tender
now; think where you are, sweet.
Cel. What other light have I left?
Dem. Prethee Celia, Indeed I'le see you presently.
Cel. I have done, Sir: You will not miss?
Dem. By this, and this, I will not.
Cel. 'Tis in your will and I must be obedient.
Dem. No more of these assemblies.
Cel. I am commanded.
1 Ush. Room for the Lady there: Madam, my service--
1 Gent. My Coach an't please you Lady.
2 Ush. Room before there.
2 Gent. The honour, Madam, but to wait upon you-- My servants and
my state.
Cel. Lord, how they flock now! Before I was afraid they would have
beat me; How these flies play i'th' Sun-shine! pray ye no services, Or if
ye needs must play the Hobby-horses, Seek out some beauty that
affects 'em: farewel, Nay pray ye spare: Gentlemen I am old enough To
go alone at these years, without crutches. [Exit.
2 Ush. Well I could curse now: but that will not help me, I made as sure
account of this wench now, immediately, Do but consider how the
Devil has crost me, Meat for my Master she cries, well--

3 Em. Once more, Sir, We ask your resolutions: Peace or War yet?
Dem. War, War, my noble Father.
1 Em. Thus I fling it: And fair ey'd peace, farewel.
Ant. You have your answer; Conduct out the Embassadours, and give
'em Convoyes.
Dem. Tell your high hearted Masters, they shall not seek us, Nor cool
i'th' field in expectation of us, We'l ease your men those marches: In
their strengths, And full abilities of mind and courage, We'l find 'em
out, and at their best trim buckle with 'em.
3 Em. You will find so hot a Souldier's welcome, Sir, Your favour shall
not freeze.
2 Em. A forward Gentleman, Pity the Wars should bruise such hopes--
Ant. Conduct em-- [Ex. Em. Now, for this preparation: where's Leontius?
Call him in presently: for I mean in person Gentlemen My self, with
my old fortune--
Dem. Royal Sir: Thus low I beg this honour: fame already Hath every
where rais'd Trophies to your glory, And conquest now grown old, and
weak with following The weary marches and the bloody shocks You
daily set her in: 'tis now scarce honour For you that never knew to fight,
but conquer, To sparkle such poor people: the Royal Eagle When she
hath tri'd [h]er young