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 prick 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 damn’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 asse of him:  I make no doubt she will be drunk too damnably, 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 whore, 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 friendship 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?