_Cap_. Hold, hold, the man begins to fear and know himself, He shall for this time only be seal'd up With a Feather through his nose, that he may only see Heaven, and think whither he's going, Nay beyond-Sea Sir, we will proclaim you, you would be King Thou tender Heir apparent to a Church-Ale, Thou sleight Prince of single Sarcenet; Thou Royal Ring-tail, fit to fly at nothing But poor mens Poultry, and have every Boy Beat thee from that too with his Bread and Butter. _Pha_. Gods keep me from these Hell-hounds. _2 Cit_. Shall's geld him Captain? _Cap_. No, you shall spare his dowcets my dear Donsels, As you respect the Ladies let them flourish; The curses of a longing woman kill as speedy as a Plague, Boys. _1 Cit_. I'le have a Leg that's certain. _2 Cit_. I'le have an Arm. _3 Cit_. I'le have his Nose, and at mine own charge build a Colledge, and clap't upon the Gate. _4 Cit_. I'le have his little Gut to string a Kit with, For certainly a Royal Gut will sound like silver. _Pha_. Would they were in thy belly, and I past my pain once. _5 Cit_. Good Captain let me have his Liver to feed Ferrets. _Cap_. Who will have parcels else? speak. _Pha_. Good gods consider me, I shall be tortur'd. _1 Cit_. Captain, I'le give you the trimming of your hand-sword, and let me have his Skin to make false Scabbards. _2_. He had no horns Sir had he? _Cap_. No Sir, he's a Pollard, what would'st thou do with horns? _Cit_. O if he had, I would have made rare Hafts and Whistles of 'em, but his Shin-bones if they be sound shall serve me. [_Enter_ Philaster. _All_. Long live _Philaster_, the brave Prince _Philaster_. _Phi_. I thank you Gentlemen, but why are these Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach your hands Uncivil Trades? _Cap_. My Royal Rosiclear, We are thy Mirmidons, thy Guard, thy Rorers, And when thy noble body is in durance, Thus do we clap our musty Murrions on, And trace the streets in terrour: Is it peace Thou _Mars_ of men? Is the King sociable, And bids thee live? Art thou above thy foemen, And free as _Phoebus_? Speak, if not, this stand Of Royal blood shall be abroach, atilt, and run Even to the lees of honour. _Phi_. Hold and be satisfied, I am my self Free as my thoughts are, by the gods I am.