_Co._ How's this? unarm'd left, now found doubly arm'd? A[n]d those that would have slain him at his feet? Oh Truth, thou art a mighty Conqueress: The Queen (my Lord) perplex'd in care of you, That, cross to her command, hazard your self In person, here is come into the Field, And like a Leader, marches in the head Of all her Troops, vows that she will demolish Each stone of this proud Tower be you not safe: She chafes like storms in Groves, now sighs, now weeps, And both sometimes, like Rain and Wind commixt, Abjures her Son for ever, less himself Do fetch you off in person, that did give Your self to save him of your own free will, And swears he must not, nor is [f]it to live. _Euph._ Oh she's a Mistriss for the gods. _Ag._ And thou a godlike servant fit for her. _Leo._ Wide _Greece_ May boast, because she cannot boast thy like. _Euph._ Thus _Conon_ tell her Highness. _Co._ My joy flies. _Eup._ Let's toward her march: stern Drum speak gentle peace. _Leo._ We are prisoners, lead us, ne'r was known A president like this: one unarm'd man (Suspected) to captive with golden words (Truth being his shield) so many arm'd with swords. [_Ex._ _Enter (at one door)_ Queen, Theanor, Crates, Conon, Lords, Soldiers, (_at another_) Euphanes (_with two swords_) Agenor, Leonidas, Soldiers: Euphanes _presents_ Leonidas _on his knees to the_ Queen: Agenor _bare-headed, makes shew of sorrow to the_ Queen, _she stamps, and seems to be angry at the first_. Euphanes _perswades her, [layes] their swords at her feet, she [kisses him,] gives them their swords again, they kiss her hand and embrace, the_ Soldiers _lift up_ Euphanes, _and shout_: Theanor _and_ Crates _discovered_, Conon _whispers with_ Crates, Euphanes _with_ Agenor, _and_ Leonidas _observes it, who seem to promise something_, Euphanes _directs his Page somewhat_. [_Exeunt all but_ Theanor _and_ Crates. _The._ We are not lucky _Crates_, this great torrent Bears all before him. _Cra._ Such an age as this Shall ne'r be seen again: virtue grows fat, And villany pines; the Furies are asleep, Mischief 'gainst goodness aim'd, is like a stone, Unnaturally forc'd up an eminent hill Whose weight falls on our heads and buries us, We springe our selves, we sink in our own bogs. _The._ What's to be done? _Cra._ Repent and grow good. _The._ Pish, 'Tis not the fashion (fool) till we grow old: The peoples love to him now scares me more Than my fond Mothers: both which, like two floods Bearing _Euphanes_ up; will o'rflow me, And he is worthy, would he were in Heaven, But that hereafter: _Crates_ help me now, And henceforth be at ease. _Cra._ Your Will my Lord?