_Rod._ Let him be thought a dastard to his death, That will not sell the travails he hath past Dearer than for a woman's fooleries: What says the mighty Mandricard? _Mand._ I vow to hie me home to Mexico, To troop myself with such a crew of men As shall so fill the downs of Africa Like to the plains of watery Thessaly, Whenas an eastern gale, whistling aloft, Hath overspread the ground with grasshoppers. Then see, Marsilius, if the Palatine Can keep his love from falling to our lots, Or thou canst keep thy country free from spoil. _Mars._ Why, think you, lords, with haughty menaces To dare me out within my palace-gates? Or hope you to make conquest by constraint Of that which never could be got by love? Pass from my court, make haste out of my land, Stay not within the bounds Marsilius holds; Lest, little brooking these unfitting braves, My choler overslip the law of arms, And I inflict revenge on such abuse. _Rod._ I'll beard and brave thee in thy proper town, And here ensconce myself despite of thee, And hold thee play till Mandricard return.-- What says the mighty Soldan of Egýpt? _Sold._ That when Prince Menelaus with all his mates Had ten years held their siege in Asia, Folding their wraths in cinders of fair Troy, Yet, for their arms grew by conceit of love, Their trophies were but conquest of a girl: Then trust me, lords, I'll never manage arms For women's loves that are so quickly lost. _Brand._ Tush, my lords, why stand you upon terms? Let us to our sconce,--and you, my lord, to Mexico. _Orl._ Ay, sirs, ensconce ye how you can, See what we dare, and thereon set your rest. [_Exeunt all except_ SACRIPANT _and his_ Man. _Sac._ [_aside_]. Boast not too much, Marsilius, in thyself, Nor of contentment in Angelica; For Sacripant must have Angelica, And with her Sacripant must have the crown: By hook or crook I must and will have both. Ah sweet Revenge, incense their angry minds, Till, all these princes weltering in their bloods, The crown do fall to County Sacripant! Sweet are the thoughts that smother from conceit: For when I come and set me down to rest, My chair presents a throne of majesty; And when I set my bonnet on my head, Methinks I fit my forehead for a crown; And when I take my truncheon in my fist, A sceptre then comes tumbling in my thoughts; My dreams are princely, all of diadems. Honour,--methinks the title is too base: Mighty, glorious, and excellent,--ay, these, My glorious genius, sound within my mouth; These please the ear, and with a sweet applause, Make me in terms coequal with the gods. Then these, Sacripant, and none but these; And these, or else make hazard of thy life. Let it suffice, I will conceal the rest.-- Sirrah! _Man._ My lord?