_Mir._ I am glad ye are so sprightly: ye fought bravely Go call the Surgeons Soldiers: wondrous nobly Upon my life, I have not seen such valour, Maintained so long, and to so large a ruine, The odds so strong against ye. _Nor._ I thank ye, And thank ye for your help, your timely succor. By th'mass, it came i' th' nick Sir, and well handled; Stoutly, and strongly handled: we had duckt else, My _Turk_ had _Turk'd_ me else: but he has well paid for't. Why what a Sign for an Almanack h'as made me! _Enter_ Astorius. _Ast._ I am glad to find ye here Sir, of necessity, I must have come aboard else; and brave Captain We all joy much in your fair victory, And all the Island speaks your valour nobly. Have ye brought the _Turk_ in, that ye took? _Mir._ He rides there. _Nor._ If he were out again, the devil should bring him. H'as truly circumcis'd me. _Ast._ I have a business Which much concerns ye, presently concerns ye; But not this place nor people: pray ye draw off, Sir, For 'tis of that weight to ye. _Mir._ I'll wait on ye, I must crave leave awhile: my care dwels with ye, And I must wait my self. _Nor._ Your servant, Sir. _Mir._ Believe I shall, and what my love can minister; Keep your stout heart still. _Nor._ That's my best Physitian. _Mir._ And I shall keep your fame fair. [_Exit._ _Nor._ Ye are too Noble. A brave young fellow of a matchless spirit; He brought me off like thunder, charg'd, and boarded, As if he had been shot to save mine honor: And when my fainting men, tyr'd with their labour, And lack of bloud, gave to the _Turk_ assurance The day was his; when I was cut in shreds thus, And not a corn of Powder left to bless us; Then flew his Sword in, then his Cannon roar'd, And let flie bloud and death and storms amongst 'em. Then might I hear their sleepy Prophet howl too, And all their _silver Crescents_ then I saw Like falling Meteors spent, and set for ever Under the Cross of _Malta_; death so wanton I never lookt upon, so full of revel. _Enter_ Surgeon. I will not be drest yet: Methought that fellow Was fit for no conversation, nor no _Christian_ That had not halfe his brain's knockt out, no Soldier. Oh valiant young man, how I love thy virtue. _1 Sold._ Pray ye Sir be drest, alas ye bleed apace yet. _Nor._ 'Tis but the sweat of honor (alas) thou milksop, Thou man of March-pain, canst thou fear to see A few light hurts, that blush they are no bigger, A few small scratches? get ye a Cawdle, Sirrah, Your finger akes, and let the old wives watch thee: Bring in the booty: and the prisoners; By heaven I'll see 'em, and dispose 'em first, Before I have a drop of blood wip'd from me, goe. [_Exeunt Soldiers._