 | Hannibal and Scipio |  |
Scene the Second.
To them a common Souldier, with a faire Lady courting him.Him.
What's here?
Shee courts him with as earnest zeale, as Cynthia
Would her Endymion, or the gray-ey'd Morne
Her earely Cephalus.
Mah.
Now by my Sword.
Him.
Is that a Souldiers oath in Capua?
By the bright tresses of my Mistresse haire,
Fine as Arachne's webbe, or Goshimere:
Whose curles when garnisht with their dressing, show
Like that spunne vapour when 'tis pearl'd with dew.
Or by the Sunshine of her christall eyes,
Wherein the God of Love his wet wings dry's
After his bathing in sad Lovers teares.
These are the onely oathes a Souldier sweares.
What should we doe with swords?
Mah.
Indeed 'tis true
Their bloody use hath beene so long neglected,
Mine must bee fil'd to powder, and prepar'd
To bee their Physick: the greene-sicknesse else
Will not bee cur'd by me.
Him.
Mine shall be drawne
To weare for pinnes: and that which oft hath raign'd
The blood of Romanes on my hilts and hand,
Wearied almost with slaughter, shall bee toucht
With trembling fingers, white as Othris snow;
Whilst the soft handler starts, if by mischance
The point but prick her skin, and must consult
With some learn'd unguentary to prevent
Th'invisible scarre. Why here we cannot quarrell
Amongst our selves for wenches. There's a Lady,
As meane a beauty heretofore hath beene
The ground of a sad warre, or in a Campe
Stir'd up a mutiny: wee cannot envie it,
That he, a common Souldier, valours ciphar,
One onely prest to make the number up,
Enjoyes her wholly, and perhaps hath change.
Mah.
Nay, stands upon nice townes for his reward;
And must bee hir'd to pleasure, such as some
Would even through any danger to embrace.
Prethee observe.
Lady.
Why should I be deny'd?
Am I not faire enough? My beauty fresh
As the new springs, when wan on Phœbus mounts
His burnish't chariot early to salute her,
And kisse dew from her cheekes.
Soul.
There are as faire
And free. A pension Lady must be thought of;
I cannot else be sportive.
Lad.
Is that all?
Ile fill thy burgnet with Iberian gold
Stampt into medals; Sell my wanton treasurie,
Rings, Iewels, Carkanets, e're thou shalt want,
But what thy wish can covet.
This old buffe
Would be translated.
Lad.
Into Persian mantles,
Richly embroydred; no rough pelt of thrumbes
To fight with weather. Shalt be cloath'd in silkes,
Such as may vye for touch with their softnesse
When it is calmest, and no violent gust
Doth wave it into wrinckles.
Soul.
I must eate too.
Lad.
Nothing but choycest candies, and drink wine
That shall have pearles dissolv'd in't. Come let's hasten
To our delights. I have prepar'd a bed
Of artificiall Roses mixt with downe;
Wherein our dalliance we will emulate,
The Cyprian Queene and her lov'd warriour,
When in her Ivory armes she did imbrace
His Iron sides.
Soul.
Soft Lady, there are yet
Stricter conditions. 'Tis not come to that.
I must not be confin'd to times or place;
Nor to your single number. I must change
As I see cause.
Lad.
Shalt be thine owne disposer.
Ile minister, and like a hand-maide waite
When thou wilt grace another; nor repine,
But with a patient longing.
Soul.
On these termes
I feele a provocation. Come.
Exeunt.
Mah.
Did ease
Ever before produce such acts of shame?
Him.
No matter. 'Tis a better life than warre
Affords her sonnes. A hard cold bed of earth:
Sleepes broken with a thousand apprehensions
Of danger; diet course, and seldome seasonable;
Hunger and thirst; and death each houre presented.
Let us translate our Carthage unto Capua;
For more inlargement.
| Hannibal and Scipio | |