 | The False One |  |
Scena Tertia.
Enter Souldiers.1 Sold.
Did ye see this Penitence?
2 Sold.
Yes: I saw, and heard it.
3 Sold.
And I too: looke'd upon him, and observ'd it,
Hee's the strangest Septinius now—
1. Sol.
I heard he was altered,
And had given away his Gold to honest uses:
Cryde monstrously.
2. Sol.
He cryes abundantly:
He is blind almost with weeping.
3. Sol.
'Tis most wonderfull
That a hard hearted man, and an old Souldier
Should have so much kind moysture: when his mother dyde
He laughed aloud, and made the wickedst Ballads—
1. Sol.
'Tis like enough: he never lov'd his Parents;
Nor can I blame him, for they neere lov'd him.
His mother dream'd before she was deliverd
That she was brought abed with a Buzzard, and ever after
She whistled him up to th'world, his brave clothes too
He has flung away: and goes like one of us now:
Walks with his hands in's pockets, poore and sorrowfull,
And gives the best instructions.—
2. Sol.
And tells stories
Of honest and good people that were honourd,
And how they were remembred: and runs mad
If he but hear of any ungratefull person,
A bloudy, or betraying man—
3. Sol.
If it be possible
That an Arch-Villain may ever be recovered,
This penitent Rascall will put hard: 'twere worth our labour
To see him once againe.
Enter Septinius.
1. Sol.
He spares us that labour
For here he comes.
Sep.
—Blesse ye my honest friends,
Blesse ye from base unworthy men; come not neare me:
For I am yet too taking for your company.
1. Sol.
Did I not tell ye?
2. Sol.
What booke's that?
1. Sol.
No doubt
Some excellent Salve for a sore heart, are you
Septinius, that base knave, that betrayd Pompey?
Sep.
I was, and am; unlesse your honest thoughts
Will look upon my penitence, and save me
I must be ever Villaine: O good Souldiers
You that have Roman hearts, take heede of falsehood:
Take heede of blood; take heede of foule ingratitude,
The Gods have scarce a mercy for those mischiefes,
Take heede of pride, 'twas that that brought me to it.
2. Sol.
This fellow would make a rare speech at the gallowes
3. Sol.
'Tis very fit he were hangd to edifie us:
Sep.
Let all your thoughts be humble, and obedient,
Love your Commanders, honour them that feede ye:
Pray, that ye may be strong in honesty
As in the use of armes; Labour, and diligently
To keepe your hearts from ease, and her base issues;
Pride, and ambitious wantonnesse, those spoyld me:
Rather loose all your limbs, then the least honesty,
You are never lame indeed, till losse of credit
Benum ye through: Scarrs, and those maimes of honour
Are memorable crutches, that shall beare
When you are dead, your noble names to Eternity.
1. Sol.
I cry.
2. Sol.
And so doe I.
3. Sol.
An excellent villaine.
1. Sol.
A more sweet pious knave, I never heard yet.
2. Sol.
He was happie he was Rascall, to come to this
Enter Achoreus.
Who's this? a Priest?
Sep.
O stay, most holy Sir!
137
(Isis, and great Osiris) pitty me,
Pitty a loaden man, and tell me truly
With what most humble Sacrifice I may
Wash off my sin, and appease the powers that hate me?
Take from my heart those thousand thousand furies,
That restlesse gnaw upon my life, and save me?
Orestes bloody hands fell on his Mother,
Yet, at the holy altar he was pardon'd.
Ach.
Orestes out of madnesse did his murther,
And therefore he found grace: thou (worst of all men)
Out of cold blood, and hope of gaine, base lucre,
Slewst thine own Feeder: come not neare the altar,
Nor with thy reeking hands pollute the Sacrifice,
Thou art markt for shame eternall.
Exit.
Sep.
Looke all on me,
And let me be a story left to time
Of blood and Infamy, how base and ougly
Ingratitude appears, with all her profits,
How monstrous, my hoped grace, at Court? good souldiers.
Let neither flattery, nor the witching sound
Of high and soft preferment, touch your goodnesse:
To be valiant, old, and honest, O what blessednesse—
1 Sold.
Dost thou want any thing?
Sep.
Nothing but your prayers:
2 S.
Be thus, and let the blind Priest do his worst,
We have gods as well as they, and they will heare us.
3 S.
Come, cry no more: thou hast wep't out twenty Pompeyes.
Enter Photinus, Achillas.
Pho.
So penitent?
Achil.
It seemes so.
Pho.
Yet for all this
We must employ him.
1 Sold.
These are the armed Souldier-leaders:
Away: and let's tot'h Fort, we shall be snapt else.
Exit.
Pho.
How now? why thus? what cause of this dejection?
Achil.
Why dost thou weepe?
Sep.
Pray leave me, you have ruin'd me,
You have made me a famous Villain.
Pho.
Does that touch thee?
Achil.
He will be hard to win: he feels his lewdnesse,
Pho.
He must be won, or we shall want our right hand.
This fellow dares, and knows, and must be heartned,
Art thou so poore to blench at what thou hast done?
Is Conscience a comrade for an old souldier?
Achil.
It is not that: it may be some disgrace
That he takes heavily; and would be cherish'd,
Septinius ever scorn'd to shew such weaknesse.
Sep.
Let me alone; I am not for your purpose,
I am now a new man.
Pho.
We have new affairs for thee
Those that would raise thy head.
Sep.
I would 'twere off,
And in your bellies for the love you beare me.
I'le be no more Knave: I have stings enough
Already in my breast.
Pho.
Thou shalt be noble:
And who dares thinke then that thou art not honest?
Achil.
Thou shalt command in Chief, all our strong Forces
And if thou serv'st an use, must not all justifie it?
Sep.
I am Rogue enough.
Pho.
Thou wilt be more, and baser:
A poor Rogue is all rogues: open to all shames:
Nothing to shadow him: dost thou think crying
Can keep thee from the censure of the Multitude?
Or to be kneeling at the altar save thee?
'Tis poore and servile:
Wert thou thine own Sacrifice
'Twould seeme so low, people would spit the fire out.
Achil.
Keep thy self glorious stil, though ne're so staind,
And that will lessen it, if not work it out
To goe complaining thus: and thus repenting
Like a poore Girle that had betraid her maiden-head—
Sep.
I'le stop mine eares.
Achil.
Will shew so in a souldier,
So simply, and so ridicolously, so tamely—
Pho.
If people would believe thee, 'twer some honesty,
And for thy penitence would not laugh at thee
(As sure they will) and beat thee, for thy poverty:
If they would allow thy foolery, there were some hope.
Sep.
My foolery?
Pho.
Nay, more then that, thy misery,
Thy monstrous misery.
Achil.
He begins to hearken:
Thy misery so great, men will not bury thee.
Sep.
That this were true!
Pho.
Why does this conquering Cæsar
Labour through the worlds deep Seas of toyls & troubles,
Dangers, and desperate hopes? to repent afterwards?
Why does he slaughter thousands in a Battell,
And whip his Countrey with the Sword? to cry for't?
Thou killdst great Pompey: hee'l kil all his kinred,
And justifie it: nay raise up Trophies to it,
When thou hearest him repent: (he's held most holy too)
And cry for doing daily bloody murthers,
Take thou example, and goe aske forgivenesse,
Call up the thing thou nam'st thy conscience,
And let it work: then 'twill seeme well Septinius.
Sep.
He does all this.
Achil.
Yes: and is honoured for it;
Nay call'd the honoured Cæsar, so maist thou be:
Thou wert born as neere a Crowne as he.
Sep.
He was poore.
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 blacke, it dulls a Souldier,
And put on resolution like a man,
A noble Fate waits on thee.
Sep.
I now feele
My selfe returning Rascall speedily.
O that I had the power—
Achil.
Thou shalt have all:
And doe all through thy power, men shall admire thee,
And the vices of Septinius, 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 welcome 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 feare farewell: I'le never melt more,
Lead on, to some great thing, to weale my spirit:
I cut the Cedar Pompey, and I'le fell
This huge Oake Cæsar too.
Pho.
Now thou singst sweetly:
And Ptolomy shall crowne thee for thy service:
(Exeunt.
Achil.
He's well wrought: put him on apace for cooling.
| The False One | |