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 Gods in Egypt, the perfumes That went to trimming these cloathes, cost me—­

  Sce. Thou stinkest still.

  Sep. The powdering of this head too—­

Sce. If thou hast it, I’le tell thee all the Gumms in sweet Arabia Are not sufficient, were they burnt about thee, To purge the scent of a rank Rascal from thee.

  Ant. I smell him now:  fie, how the Knave perfumes him,
  How strong he scents of Traitor!

Dol. You had an ill Millener, He laid too much of the Gum of Ingratitude Upon your Coat, you should have washt off that Sir, Fie, how it choaks! too little of your loyaltie, Your honesty, your faith, that are pure Ambers; I smell the rotten smell of a hired Coward, A dead Dog is sweeter.

Sep. Ye are merry Gentlemen, And by my troth, such harmless mirth takes me too, You speak like good blunt Souldiers; and ’tis well enough:  But did you live at Court, as I do, Gallants, You would refine, and learn an apter language; I have done ye simple service on your Pompey, You might have lookt him yet this brace of twelve months And hunted after him, like foundred Beagles, Had not this fortunate hand—­

  Ant. He brags on’t too: 
  By the good Gods, rejoyces in’t; thou wretch
  Thou most contemptible Slave.

Sce. Dog, mangy Mongrel, Thou murdring mischief, in the shape of Souldier To make all Souldiers hatefull; thou disease That nothing but the Gallows can give ease to.—­

  Dol. Thou art so impudent, that I admire thee,
  And know not what to say.

Sep. I know your anger And why you prate thus:  I have found your melancholy:  Ye all want mony, and you are liberal Captains, And in this want will talk a little desperately:  Here’s gold, come share; I love a brave Commander:  And be not peevish, do as Caesar does:  He’s merry with his wench now, be you jovial, And let’s all laugh and drink:  would he have partners?  I do consider all your wants, and weigh ’em, He has the Mistris, you shall have the maids, I’le bring ’em to ye, to your arms.

Ant. I blush, All over me, I blush, and sweat to hear him:  Upon my conscience, if my arms were on now Through them I should blush too:  pray ye let’s be walking.

Sce. Yes, yes:  but e’re