Ach. ’Tis no hour now for anger:  No wisdom to debate with fruitless choler, Let us consider timely what we must do, Since she is flown to his protection, From whom we have no power to sever her, Nor force conditions—­

  Ptol. Speak (good Achoreus)

  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 Gods 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 nobly, 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 noble 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 chastitie.

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—­