+Capt.+ Come on, you Atlases of Arragon: You by whose powers the Castilian cloud Was forc'd to vanish. We have ferk'd Florentio In the right arm; made the enamour'd Don Retire to doleful tent. +San.+ We sallied bravely. +Capt.+ Thou didst i' th' sally fight like lightning, Conde; Let the air play with thy plume, most puissant peer. No Conde Sanmartino now, but Conde St George, that Cappadocian man-at-arms. Thou hast done wonders, wonders big with story, Fit to be sung in lofty epic strain; For writing which the poet shall behold, That which creates a Conde, gold; gold which Shall make him wanton with some suburb muse, And Hippocrene flow with Canary billow. Th' art high in feat of arms. +San.+ Captain, I think I did my part. +Capt.+ Base is the wight that thinks:[275] Let Condes small in spirit drink harsh sherry, Then quarrel with promoting knights, and fine for't: Thou art in mettle mighty, tough as steel, As Bilboa or Toledo steel. Fight on, Let acres sink, and bank of money melt; Forsake thy lady's lap, and sleep with us Upon the bed of honour, the chill earth. 'Tis that will make thee held a potent peer, 'Mong men o' th' pike, of buff, and bandolier. +San.+ Thou speak'st brave language, captain. +Capt.+ I'll maintain 'Tis Arragonian, Conde. +Brow.+ Captain Cedar, Though in thy language lofty, give a shrub Leave to salute thee. Sure, we two are near In blood and great attempt. Don Hercules Was, as I read in Chaldean chronicle, Our common ancestor; Don Hercules, Who rifled nymph on top of Apennine. +Capt.+ Small imp, avaunt! +Brow.+ Stout sturdy oak, that grows So high in field of Mars, O, let no tempest Shake thee from hence! And now I have with labour Attain'd thy language, I'll thy truchman[276] be. Interpret for thee to those smaller souls, Who wonder when they understand not: souls Whom courtiers' gaudy outside captivates And plume of coronel. +Capt.+ I must expire, Not talk to fish. Seest thou that man of match? Though small in stature, mighty he's in soul, And rich in gifts of mind, though poor in robes: Reward, like Philip's heir, his daring arm, Which fetch'd thee off from danger. Once again, Most doughty Don, adieu. +Brow.+ Great Don Saltpetre, I am the servant of thy fam'd caliver. +San.+ These are strong lines. Now, friend, art thou o' th' garrison? +Sol.+ If't please your lordship. +San.+ It doth not please me, It is indifferent: I care not what thou art. Art thou extremely poor? +Sol.+ If't please your lordship. +San.+ No, not that neither. Why should I malign So far thy fortune as to wish thee poor? 'Twere safer for my purse if thou wert rich; Then all reward were base. +Sol.+ If't please your lordship.