NIC. Yonder's the bones o' th' army ralli'd up Together, but they look'd rather as if They came home from being soundly beaten. Methinks such tatter'd rogues should never conquer, Victory would look so scurvily among 'em, They'd so bedaub her if she wore clean linen. CAPT. Sir, we wear as sound hearts in these torn breeches, As e'er a courtier of them all. We are not afraid of spoiling our hands for want Of gloves, nor need we almond-butter, when We go to bed. And though my lieutenant Is pleased to be a little merry, you Shall see us die as handsomely in these old clothes As those wear better, and become our wounds As well, and perhaps smell as sweet When we are rotten. PLAN. We hope it. Captains and fellow-soldiers, we are proud Of this occasion to try your valours; You shall go no farther than your prince doth, I'll be no bringer up of rears. Let not The number of the foe affright you, The more they are, the more will the honour be. The lion scorns to prey upon a hare, Nor is the blinking taper fit to try eagles' eyes. The weight of glory makes our danger light. When victory comes easily, 'tis half A shame to conquer. [_Soldiers shout, and exeunt._ INO. I'll stay at home, and grieve, that so many Daring souls should die on such advantage. [_Exit_ INOPHILUS. SCENE IV. _Enter the_ KING _solus_. KING. Her husband dead too! Fates, let me die, I am too happy to remain long thus Without a ruin, great as the height I fell from. Plangus was my only obstacle; but him I have Removed. But love commanded: His presence would have countermanded all attempts; I need not fear his magic at this distance. His looks and actions were one entire enchantment, All[84]-powerful over a lady's heart. I sent for her; but she's not come yet. Who waits without? _Enter_ ARTESIO. ART. There's a mourning lady, sir, Would speak with the king. KING. Admit her, and begone. SCENE V. _Enter_ ANDROMANA _in mourning, with a hood over her face, which she throws up when she sees the_ KING. KING. So riseth Phoebus from the gloomy night, While pale-fac'd Dian maketh haste to hide Her borrow'd glory in some neighb'ring cloud, Envying the beauty of the new-born day, When darkness crowds into the other world. Madam, why kneel you? You, at whose name monarchs [_She kneels._ Themselves might tremble, and mortals bow With reverence great as they pay to altars: Sceptres should break in pieces and adore you; At whose sight the sun and moon should blush Themselves to blood and darkness, and falling From their sphere, crush the audacious world to atoms, For daring to behold a lustre so much greater Than their own.