_Soph. Martius_ shall rest in _Athens_ with his friends, Till this distemper leave him: O! great Roman, See _Sophocles_ doe that for thee, he could not Do for himself, weep. _Martius_, by the---- It grieves me that so brave a soul should suffer Under the bodies weak infirmitie. Sweet Lady, take him to thy loving charge, And let thy care be tender. _Dor._ Kingly Sir, I am your Nurse and servant. _Mar._ O deer Lady, My Mistris, nay my Deity; guide me heaven, Ten wreathes triumphant _Martius_ will give, To change a _Martius_ for a _Sophocles_: Can't not be done (_Valerius_) with this boot? Inseparable affection, ever thus Colleague with _Athens Rome_. _Dor._ Beat warlike tunes, Whilest _Dorigen_ thus honors _Martius_ brow With one victorious wreath more. _Soph._ And _Sophocles_ Thus girds his Sword of conquest to his thigh, Which ne'r be drawn, but cut out Victorie. _Lords._ For ever be it thus. [_Exeunt._ _Corn._ Corporall _Nichodemus_, a word with you. _Nic._ My worthie Sutler _Cornelius_, it befits not _Nichodemus_ the Roman Officer to parley with a fellow of thy rank: the affairs of the Empire are to be occupied. _Corn._ Let the affaires of the Empire lie a while unoccupied, sweet _Nichodemus_; I doe require the money at thy hands, which thou doest owe me; and if faire means cannot attain, force of Armes shall accomplish. _Nic._ Put up and live. _Corn._ I have put up too much already, thou Corporall of Concupiscence, for I suspect thou hast dishonored my flock-bed, and with thy foolish Eloquence, and that bewitching face of thine drawn my Wife, the young harlotrie baggage to prostitute herself unto thee. Draw therefore, for thou shalt find thyself a mortall Corporall. _Nichod._ Stay thy dead-doing hand, and heare: I will rather descend from my honor, and argue these contumelies with thee, then clutch thee (poor flye) in these eaglet ---- of mine: or draw my sword of Fate on a Pesant, a _Besognio_, a _Cocoloch_, as thou art. Thou shalt first understand this foolish eloquence, and intolerable beauty of mine (both which, I protest, are meerly naturall) are the gifts of the gods, with which I have neither sent baudy Sonnet, nor amorous glance, or (as the vulgar call it) sheeps eye to thy betrothed _Florence_. _Cor._ Thou lyest. _Nich._ O gods of _Rome_, was _Nichodemus_ born To hear these braveries from a poor provant? Yet when dogs bark, or when the asses bray, The lion laughs, not roars, but goes his way.