_Reg._ It must needs, If stout _Suetonius_ win; for then his anger, Besides the Soldiers loss of due, and honor, Will break together on him. _Dru._ He's a brave fellow; And but a little hide his haughtiness, (Which is but sometimes neither, on some causes) He shews the worthiest _Roman_ this day living. You may, good _Curius_, to the General Make all things seem the best. _Cur._ I shall endeavour: Pray for our fortunes, Gentlemen, If we fall, This one farewel serves for a Funeral. The gods make sharp our swords, and steel our hearts; We dare, alas, but cannot fight our parts. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Secunda._ _Enter_ Junius, Petillius _and a_ Herald _observing_ Junius. _Petill._ Let him go on: stay, now he talks. _Jun._ Why? Why should I love mine enemie? what is beauty? Of what strange violence, that like the plague, It works upon our spirits? blind they feign him, I am sure, I find it so. _Petill._ A Dog shall lead ye. _Jun._ His fond affections blinder. _Petill._ Hold ye there still. _Jun._ It takes away my sleep. _Petill._ Alas, poor chicken. _Jun._ My company, content; almost my fashion. _Petill._ Yes, and your weight too, if you follow it. _Jun._ 'Tis sure the plague, for no man dare come near me Without an Antidote: 'tis far worse; Hell. _Petill._ Thou art damn'd without redemption then. _Jun._ The way to't Strew'd with fair Western smiles, and _April_ blushes, Led by the brightest constellations; eyes, And sweet proportions, envying heaven: but from thence No way to guide, no path, no wisdom bring us. _Petill._ Yes, a smart water, _Junius_. _Jun._ Do I fool? Know all this, and fool still? Do I know further, That when we have enjoy'd our ends, we lose 'em, And all our appetites are but as dreams We laugh at in our ages. _Petill._ Sweet Philosopher! _Jun._ Do I know on still, and yet know nothing? Mercy gods, Why am I thus ridiculous? _Petill._ Motley on thee, Thou art an arrant Ass. _Jun._ Can red and white, An Eye, a Nose, a Cheek. _Petill._ But one cheek, _Junius_? An half-fac'd Mistriss? _Jun._ With a little trim, That wanton fools call Fashion, thus abuse me? Take me beyond my reason? Why should not I Doat on my horse well trapt, my sword well hatch'd? They are as handsome things, to me more useful, And possible to rule too. Did I but love, Yet 'twere excusable, my youth would bear it; But to love there, and that no time can give me, Mine honor dare not ask: she has been ravish'd My nature must not know; she hates our Nation. Thus to dispose my spirit! _Petill._ Stay a little, He will declaim again.