Goe, and the bold Physitian play; But touch the King and drive away The paine he feeles; but first assay To free the Christians: if the King pay Thy service ill, expect a day When for reward thou shalt not stay. All writ in golden Letters and cut so even As if some hand had hither reacht from Heaven To print this Paper. _Enter Epidophorus_. _Epi_. Come, you must to the King. _Eugen_. I am so laden with Irons I scarce can goe. _Epi_. Wyer-whips shall drive you, The King is counsell'd for his health to bath him In the warme blood of Christians; and you, I thinke, Must give him ease. _Eugen_. Willingly; my fetters Hang now, methinks, like feathers at my heeles. On, any whither; I can runne, sir. _Epi_. Can you? not very farre, I feare. _Eugen_. No windes my Faith shake, nor rock[s] split in sunder: The poore ship's tost here, my strong Anchor's yonder. [_Exeunt_. (SCENE 3.) _Enter Bellizarius and Hubert_. _Hub_. My Lord? _Belliz_. Ha! _Hub_. Affraid in a close room where no foe comes Unlesse it be a Weezle or a Rat (And those besiege your Larder or your Pantry), Whom the arm'd Foe never frighted in the field? _Belliz_. 'Tis true, my Lord, there danger was a safety; here To be secure I thinke most dangerous. Or what could[157] famine, wounds or all th'extreames That still attend a Souldiers actions Could not destroy, one sillable from a Kings breath Can thus, thus easily win. _Hub_. Oh, 'tis their long observed policy To turne away these roaring boyes When they intend to rock licentious thoughts In a soft roome, where every long Cushion is Embroydered with old Histories of peace, And all the hangings of Warre thrust into the Wardrobe Till they grow musty or moth-eaten. _Belliz_. One of those rusty Monuments am I. _Hub_. A little oyle of favour will secure thee agen, And make thee shine as bright as in that day We wonne the famous battaile 'gainst the Christians. _Enter Bellina and kneeles weeping_. _Belliz_. Never, _Hubert_, never. What newes now, Girle? thy heart So great it cannot tell me? _Hub_. Sfoot, why shouldst thou be troubled, that art thus visited? Let the King put me into any roome, the closer the better, and turne but such a keeper to me, and if ever I strive to runne away, though the doores be open, may the Virgins curse destroy me, and let me lamentably and most unmanly dye of the Greene-sicknesse. _Belliz_. My blessing bring thee patience, gentle Girle; It is the best thy wronged Father can Invoke for thee.--Tis my _Bellina, Hubert_: Know her, honour'd Sir, and pittie her. _Hub_. How sweetly she becomes the face of woe! Shee teacheth misery to court her beauty And to affliction lends a lovely looke. Happy folkes would sell their blessings for her griefes But to be sure to meete them thus.