cut through,
I do not hold it so discreet: but a good face, Gentlemen,
And eyes that are the winningst Orators:
A youth that opens like perpetual spring,
And to all these, a tongue that can deliver
The Oracles of Love--

_Sce._ I would you had her,
With all her Oracles, and Miracles,
She were fitter for your turn.

_Ant._ Would I had, _Sceva_,
With all her faults too: let me alone to mend 'em,
O'that condition I made thee mine heir.

_Sce._ I had rather have your black horse, than your harlots.

_Dol._ _Caesar_ writes _Sonnetts_ now, the sound of war
Is grown too boystrous for his mouth: he sighs too.

_Sce._ And learns to fiddle most melodiously,
And sings, 'twould make your ears prick up, to hear him Gent.
Shortly she'l make him spin: and 'tis thought
He will prove an admirable maker of Bonelace,
And what a rare gift will that be in a General!

_Ant._ I would he could abstain.

_Sce._ She is a witch sure,
And works upon him with some damn'd inchantment.

_Dol._ How cunning she will carry her behaviours,
And set her countenance in a thousand postures,
To catch her ends!

_Sce._ She will be sick, well, sullen,
Merry, coy, over-joy'd, and seem to dye
All in one half hour, to make an asse of him:
I make no doubt she will be drunk too damnably,
And in her drink will fight, then she fits him.

_Ant._ That thou shouldst bring her in!

_Sce._ 'Twas my blind fortune,
My Souldiers told me, by the weight 'twas wicked:
Would I had carried _Milo's_ Bull a furlong,
When I brought in this Cow-Calf: he has advanced me
From an old Souldier, to a bawd of memory:
O, that the Sons of _Pompey_ were behind him,
The honour'd _Cato_, and fierce _Juba_ with 'em,
That they might whip him from his whore, and rowze him:
That their fierce Trumpets, from his wanton trances,
Might shake him like an Earth-quake.

_Enter_ Septimius.

_Ant._ What's this fellow?

_Dol._ Why, a brave fellow, if we judge men by their clothes.

_Ant._ By my faith he is brave indeed: he's no commander?

_Sce._ Yes, he has a _Roman_ face, he has been at fair wars
And plenteous too, and rich, his Trappings shew it.

_Sep._ And they will not know me now, they'l never know me.
Who dare blush now at my acquaintance? ha?
Am I not totally a span-new Gallant,
Fit for the choycest eyes? have I not gold?
The friendship of the world? if they shun