_Ast._ Yes _Mountferrat_. No bold Knight ever past you, but we wear The dignity of Christians on our breasts, And have a long time triumph'd for our conquests; These conquer'd a long time, not triumph'd yet. _Mount. Astori[u]s_, you are a most indulgent Knight, Detracting from your self, to add to others, You know this title is the period To all our labors, the extremity Of that tall pyramid, where hon[ou]r hangs, Which we with sweat and agony have reach'd, And should not then so easily impart So bright a wreath to every cheap desert. _Cast._ How is this French man chang'd _Astorius_! Some sullen discontent possesses him, That makes him envy, what he heretofore Did most ingeniously but emulate. _Mount._ Oh furious desire, how like a whirl-wind Thou hurriest me beyond mine honors point! Out of my heart, base lust, or heart, I vow Those flames that heat me thus, I'll burn thee in. _Ast._ Do' ye observe him? _Mount._ What news of the _Dane_, That valiant Captain _Norandine_? _Cast._ He fights still, In view oth' Town; he playes the devil with 'em, And they the _Turks_ with him. _Mount._ They'r well met then, 'twere sin to sever 'em Pish--woman.--Memory-- Would one of ye would leave me: _Ast._ Six fresh Gallies I in St. _Angelo_ from the promontory This morne descride, making a Girdle for him, But our great Master doth intend relief This present meeting: will you walk along? _Mount._ Humh--I have read, Ladies enjoy'd, have been The gulphs of worthiest men, buried their names, Their former valor, bounty, beauty, virtue, And sent 'em stinking to untimely graves. I that cannot enjoy, by her disdain, Am like to prove as wretched; woman then Checking or granting, is the grave of men. _Ast._ He's saying of his prayers sure. _Cast._ Will you go Sir? _Mount._ I cry you mercy: I am so transported (Your pardon, noble Brothers) with a business That doth concern all _Malta_, that I am (Anon you'l hear't) almost blind, and deaf. Lust neither sees nor hears ought but it self: But I will follow instantly: your cross. _Ast._ Not mine. [_dropt._ _Cast._ Nor mine, 'tis yours. _Ast. Cast._ Good morrow Brother. [_Exeunt._ _Mount._ White innocent sign, thou do'st abhor to dwell, So near the dim thoughts of this troubled breast, [And grace these graceless projects of my heart.] _Enter_ Zanthia, alias Abdella, _with two Letters_.