_Max._ If the Sun keep his course, And the Earth can bear his Souldiers march, I fear not. _Aur._ Or liberty, or revenge. _Char._ On that I build too. [_A Trumpet._ _Aur._ A _Roman_ Trumpet! _Max._ 'Tis; comes it not like A pardon to a man condemn'd? _Cos._ Admit him. _Enter_ Niger. The purpose of thy coming? _Nig._ My great Master, The Lord of _Rome_, (in that all Power is spoken) Hoping that thou wilt prove a noble Enemy, And (in thy bold resistance) worth his conquest, Defies thee, _Cosroe_. _Max._ There is fire in this. _Nig._ And to encourage thy laborious powers To tug for Empire, dares thee to the field, With this assurance, if thy Sword can win him, Or force his Legions with thy barbed horse, But to forsake their ground, that not alone Wing'd Victory shall take stand on thy Tent, But all the Provinces, and Kingdoms held By the _Roman_ Garrisons in this _Eastern_ World, Shall be deliver'd up, and he himself Acknowledge thee his Sovereign. In return Of this large offer, he asks only this, That till the doubtful Die of War determine Who has most power, and should command the other, Thou wouldst entreat thy Prisoners like their Births, And not their present Fortune; and to bring 'em, Guarded, into thy Tent, with thy best strengths, Thy ablest men of War, and thou thy self Sworn to make good the place. And if he fail (Maugre all opposition can be made) In his own person to compel his way, And fetch them safely off, the day is thine, And he, like these, thy Prisoner. _Cos._ Though I receive this But as a _Roman_ Brave, I do embrace it, And love the sender. Tell him, I will bring My Prisoners to the field, and without odds, Against his single force, alone defend 'em; Or else with equal numbers. Courage, noble Princes, And let Posterity record, that we This memorable day restor'd to _Persia,_ That Empire of the World, great _Philip_'s Son, Ravish'd from us, and _Greece_ gave up to _Rome_. This our strong comfort, that we cannot fall Ingloriously, since we contend for all. [_Exeunt._ [_Flourish. Alarms._ SCENE V. _Enter_ Geta, _Guard_, _Souldiers_. _Get._ I'll swear the Peace against 'em, I am hurt, Run for a Surgeon, or I faint. _1 Guard._ Bear up, man, 'Tis but a scratch. _Get._ Scoring a man o'r the Coxcomb Is but a scratch with you! ---- o' your occupation, Your scurvy scuffling trade; I was told before My face was bad enough; but now I look Like bloody Bone, and raw head, to fright Children; I am for no use else. _2 Guard._ Thou shalt fright men. _1 Guard._ You look so terrible now; but see your face In the Pummel of my Sword.