_Al._ Pray fear not: For vertues sake deliver me from doubts, Lady: 'Tis not the name of King, nor all his promises, His glories, and his greatness stuck about me, Can make me prove a Traitor to your service: You are my Mistris, and my noble Master, Your vertues my ambition, and your favour The end of all my love, and all my fortune: And when I fail in that faith-- _Ol._ I believe thee, Come wipe your eyes; I do: take you example-- _Pets._ I would her eyes were out. _1 Wom._ If the wind stand in this door, We shall have but cold custome: some trick or other, And speedily. _Pet._ Let me alone to think on't. _Ol._ Come, be you near me still. _Al._ With all my duty. [_Exeunt._ SCENA III. _Enter_ Archas, Theodor, Putskie, _Ancient, and Souldiers, carrying his armour piece-meale, his Colours wound up, and his Drums in Cases_. _Theod._ This is the heaviest march we e're trod Captain. _Puts._ This was not wont to be: these honour'd pieces The fierie god of war himself would smile at, Buckl'd upon that body, were not wont thus, Like Reliques to be offer'd to long rust, And heavy-ey'd oblivion brood upon 'em. _Arch._ There set 'em down: and glorious war farewel; Thou child of honour and ambitious thoughts, Begot in bloud, and nurs'd with Kingdomes ruines; Thou golden danger, courted by thy followers Through fires and famins, for one title from thee-- Prodigal man-kind spending all his fortunes; A long farewel I give thee: Noble Arms, You ribs for mighty minds, you Iron houses, Made to defie the thunder-claps of Fortune, Rust and consuming time must now dwell with ye: And thou good Sword that knewst the way to conquest, Upon whose fatal edge despair and death dwelt, That when I shook thee thus, fore-shew'd destruction, Sleep now from bloud, and grace my Monument: Farewel my Eagle; when thou flew'st, whole Armies Have stoopt below thee: At Passage I have seen thee, Ruffle the _Tartars_, as they fled thy furie; And bang 'em up together, as a Tassel, Upon the streach, a flock of fearfull Pigeons. I yet remember when the _Volga_ curl'd, The aged _Volga_, when he heav'd his head up, And rais'd his waters high, to see the ruins; The ruines our Swords made, the bloudy ruins, Then flew this Bird of honour bravely, Gentlemen; But these must be forgotten: so must these too, And all that tend to Arms, by me for ever. Take 'em you holy men; my Vow take with 'em, Never to wear 'em more: Trophies I give 'em, And sacred Rites of war to adorn the Temple: There let 'em hang, to tell the world their master Is now Devotions Souldier, fit for prayer. Why do ye hang your heads? why look you sad friends? I am not dying yet. _Theod._ Ye are indeed to us Sir. _Puts._ Dead to our fortunes, General.