Damianus_, and _Anthony_; you upon whom
The _Vandall_ State doth leane, for my back's too weake;
I tell you once agen that surly Monarch,
Who treads on all Kings throats, hath sent to me
His proud Embassadours: I have given them Audience
Here in our Chamber Royall. Nor could that move me,
To meete Death face to face, were my great worke
Once perfected in _Affrick_ by my sonne;
I meane that generall sacrifice of Christians,
Whose blood would wash the Temples of our gods
And win them bow downe their immortall eyes
Upon our offerings. Yet, I talke not idly,
Yet, _Anthonie_, I may; for sleepe, I think,
Is gone out of my kingdome, it is else fled
To th'poore; for sleepe oft takes the harder bed
And leaves the downy pillow of a King.

_Cosm_. Try, Sir, if Musick can procure you[133] rest.

_King_. _Cosmo_, 'tis sinne to spend a thing so precious
On him that cannot weare it. No, no; no Musick;
But if you needs will charme my o're-watcht eyes,
Now growne too monstrous for their lids to close,
If you so long to fill these Musick-roomes
With ravishing sounds indeed; unclaspe that booke,
Turne o're that Monument of Martyrdomes,
Read there how _Genzerick_ has serv'd the gods
And made their Altars drunke with Christians blood,
Whil'st their loath'd bodies flung in funerall piles
Like Incense burnt in Pyramids of fire;
And when their flesh and bones were all consum'd
Their ashes up in whirle-winds flew i'th Ayre
To show that of foure Elements not one had care
Of them, dead or alive. Read, _Anthony_.

_Anth_. 'Tis swelld to a faire Volume.

_King_. Would I liv'd
To add a second part too't. Read, and listen:
No _Vandall_ ere writ such a Chronicle.

_Anth_. Five hundred[134] broyl'd to death in Oyle and Lead:
Seven hundred flead alive, their Carkasses
Throwne to King _Genzericks_ hounds.

_King_. Ha, ha, brave hunting.

_Anth_. Upon the great day of _Apollo's_ feast,
The fourth Moneth of your Reigne.

_King_. O give me more,
Let me dye fat with laughing.

_Anth_. Thirty faire Mothers, big with Christian brats,
Upon a scaffold in the Palace plac'd
Had first their dugges sear'd off, their wombes ript up,
About their miscreant heads their first borne Sonnes
Tost as a Sacrifice to _Jupiter_,
On his great day and the Ninth Month of _Genzerick_.

_King_. A Play; a Comicall Stage our Palace was.
Any more? oh, let me surfeit.

_Anth_.