Pho. Why does this conquering Caesar Labour through the worlds deep Seas of toyls and troubles, Dangers, and desperate hopes? to repent afterwards?  Why does he slaughter thousands in a Battel, And whip his Country with the sword? to cry for’t?  Thou killd’st great Pompey; he’l kill all his kindred, And justifie it:  nay raise up Trophies to it.  When thou hear’st him repent, (he’s held most holy too) And cry for doing daily bloody murthers, Take thou example, and go ask forgiveness, Call up the thing thou nam’st thy conscience, And let it work:  then ’twill seem well Septimius.

  Sep. He does all this.

  Achil. Yes:  and is honour’d for it;
  Nay call’d the honour’d Caesar, so maist thou be: 
  Thou wert born as near a Crown as he.

  Sep. He was poor.

  Pho. And desperate bloody tricks got him this credit.

  Sep. I am afraid you will once more—­

Pho. Help to raise thee:  Off with thy pining black, it dulls a Souldier, And put on resolution like a man, A noble Fate waits on thee.

  Sep. I now feel
  My self returning Rascal speedily. 
  O that I had the power—­

  Achil. Thou shalt have all: 
  And do all through thy power, men shall admire thee,
  And the vices of Septimius shall turn vertues.

  Sep. Off:  off:  thou must off:  off my cowardize,
  Puling repentance off.

  Pho. Now thou speakst nobly.

Sep. Off my dejected looks:  and welcom impudence:  My daring shall be Deity, to save me:  Give me instructions, and put action on me:  A glorious cause upon my swords point, Gentlemen, And let my wit, and valour work:  you will raise me, And make me out-dare all my miseries?

  Pho. All this, and all thy wishes.

Sep. Use me then, Womanish fear farewell:  I’le never melt more, Lead on, to some great thing, to wake my spirit:  I cut the Cedar Pompey, and I’le fell This huge Oak Caesar too.

  Pho. Now thou singst sweetly: 
  And Ptolomy shall crown thee for thy service.

  Achil. He’s well wrought:  put him on apace for cooling.
          
                                              [Exeunt.

ACTUS QUINTUS.  SCENA PRIMA.

    Enter Caesar, Antony, Dolabella.

  Ant. The tumult still encreases.

Caesar.  O my fortune!  My lustfull folly rather! but ’tis well, And worthily I am made a bondsmans prey, That after all my glorious victories, In which I pass’d so many Seas of dangers, When all the Elements conspir’d against me, Would yield up the dominion of this head To any mortal power:  so blind and stupid, To trust these base Egyptians, that proclaim’d Their perjuries, in noble Pompeys death, And yet that could not warn me.

  Dol. Be still Caesar,
  Who ever lov’d to exercise his fate,
  Where danger look’t most dreadful.