Produced by Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE LOYAL SUBJECT, A TRAGI-COMEDY. Persons Represented in the Play. _Great_ Duke _of_ Moscovia. Archas, _the Loyal Subject_, _General of the_ Moscovites. Theodore, _Son to_ Archas; _valorous, but impatient_. Putskie _alias_ Briskie, _a Captain_, _Brother to_ Archas. Alinda _alias_ Archas, _Son to_ Archas. Burris, _an honest Lord_, _the Dukes Favourite_. Boroskie, _a malicious seducing Councellor to the Duke_. _Ensign to_ Archas, _a stout merry Souldier_. _Souldiers._ _Gentlemen._ _Guard._ _Servants._ _WOMEN._ Olympia, _Sister to the Duke_. Honora, } _Daughters of_ Archas. Viola, } Potesca, } _Servants to_ Olympia. Ladies, } _Bawd_, _a Court Lady_. _The Scene_ Mosco. The principal Actors were, _Richard Burbadge._ } { _Nathanael Feild._ _Henry Condel._ } { _John Underwood._ _John Lowin._ } { _Nicholas Toolie._ _Richard Sharpe._ } { _William Eglestone._ _Actus primus. Scena prima._ _Enter_ Theodor _and_ Putskie. _The._ Captain, your friend's prefer'd, the Princess has her, Who, I assure my self, will use her nobly; A pretty sweet one 'tis indeed. _Put._ Well bred, Sir, I do deliver that upon my credit, And of an honest stock. _The._ It seems so, Captain, And no doubt will do well. _Put._ Thanks to your care, Sir; But tell me Noble Colonel, why this habit Of discontent is put on through the Army? And why your valiant Father, our great General, The hand that taught to strike, the Love that led all; Why he, that was the Father of the War, He that begot, and bred the Souldier, Why he sits shaking of his Arms, like Autumn, His Colours folded, and his Drums cas'd up, The tongue of War for ever ty'd within us? _The._ It must be so: Captain you are a stranger, But of a small time here a Souldier, Yet that time shews ye a right good, and great one, Else I could tell ye hours are strangely alter'd: The young Duke has too many eyes upon him, Too many fears 'tis thought too, and to nourish those, Maintains too many Instruments. _Put._ Turn their hearts, Or turn their heels up, Heaven: 'Tis strange it should be: The old Duke lov'd him dearly. _The._ He deserv'd it; And were he not my Father, I durst tell ye, The memorable hazards he has run through Deserv'd of this man too; highly deserv'd too; Had they been less, they had been safe _Putskie_, And sooner reach'd regard. _Put._ There you struck sure, Sir. _The._ Did I never tell thee of a vow he made Some years before the old Duke dyed? _Put._ I have heard ye Speak often of that vow; but how it was, Or to what end, I never understood yet.