hement protestations.

_Sep._ You much wrong me;
How can I want, when your beams shine upon me,
Unless employment to express my zeal
To do your greatness service? do but think
A deed so dark, the Sun would blush to look on,
For which Man-kind would curse me, and arm all
The powers above, and those below against me:
Command me, I will on.

_Pho._ When I have use,
I'le put you to the test.

_Sep._ May it be speedy,
And something worth my danger: you are cold,
And know not your own powers: this brow was fashion'd
To wear a Kingly wreath, and your grave judgment,
Given to dispose of monarchies, not to govern
A childs affairs, the peoples eye's upon you,
The Souldier courts you: will you wear a garment
Of sordid loyalty when 'tis out of fashion?

_Pho._ When _Pompey_ was thy General, _Septimius_,
Thou saidst as much to him.

_Sep._ All my love to him,
To _Caesar_, _Rome_, and the whole world is lost
In the Ocean of your Bounties: I have no friend,
Project, design, or Countrey, but your favour,
Which I'le preserve at any rate.

_Pho._ No more;
When I call on you, fall not off: perhaps
Sooner than you expect, I may employ you,
So leave me for a while.

_Sep._ Ever your Creature. [_Exit._

_Pho._ Good day _Achoreus_; my best friend _Achillas_,
Hath fame deliver'd yet no certain rumour
Of the great _Roman Action_?

_Achil._ That we are
To enquire, and learn of you Sir: whose grave care
For _Egypts_ happiness, and great _Ptolomies_ good,
Hath eyes and ears in all parts.

_Enter_ Ptolomy, Labienus, _Guard._

_Pho._ I'le not boast,
What my Intelligence costs me: but 'ere long
You shall know more. The King, with him a _Roman_.

_Ach._ The scarlet livery of unfortunate war
Dy'd deeply on his face.

_Achil._ 'Tis _Labienus_
_Caesars_ Lieutenant in the wars of _Gaul_,
And fortunate in all his undertakings:
But since these Civil jars he turn'd to _Pompey_,
And though he followed the better Cause
Not with the like success.

_Pho._ Such as are wise
Leave falling buildings, flye to those that rise;
But more of that hereafter.

_Lab._ In a word, Sir,
These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave,
Speak _Pompey's_ loss: to tell you of the Battail,
How many thousand several bloody shapes
Death wore that day in triumph: how we bore
The shock of _Caesars_ charge: or with what fury
His