_Amu._ Fabius, come hither: what is that thou sayest? What did God Mahound prophesy to us? Why do our viceroys wend unto the wars Before their king had notice of the same? What, do they think to play bob-fool with me? Or are they wax'd so frolic now of late, Since that they had the leading of our bands, As that they think that mighty Amurack Dares do no other than to soothe them up? Why speak'st thou not? what fond or frantic fit Did make those careless kings to venture it? _Fabi._ Pardon, dear lord; no frantic fit at all, No frolic vein, nor no presumptuous mind, Did make your viceroys take these wars in hand: But forc'd they were by Mahound's prophecy To do the same, or else resolve to die. _Amu._ So, sir, I hear you, but can scarce believe That Mahomet would charge them go before, Against Alphonsus with so small a troop, Whose number far exceeds King Xerxes' troop. _Fabi._ Yes, noble lord, and more than that, he said That, ere that you, with these your warlike men, Should come to bring your succour to the field, Belinus, Claramont, and Arcastus too Should all be crown'd with crowns of beaten gold, And borne with triumph round about their tents. _Amu._ With triumph, man! did Mahound tell them so?-- Provost, go carry Fabius presently Unto the Marshalsea;[48] there let him rest, Clapt sure and safe in fetters all of steel, Till Amurack discharge him from the same; For be he sure, unless it happen so As he did say Mahound did prophesy, By this my hand forthwith the slave shall die. [_They lay hold of_ FABIUS, _and make as though to carry him out._ _Enter a_ Messenger. _Mess._ Stay, Provost, stay, let Fabius alone: More fitteth now that every lusty lad Be buckling on his helmet, than to stand In carrying soldiers to the Marshalsea. _Amu._ Why, what art thou, that darest once presume For to gainsay that Amurack did bid? _Mess._ I am, my lord, the wretched'st man alive, Born underneath the planet of mishap; Erewhile, a soldier of Belinus' band, But now-- _Amu._ What now? _Mess._ The mirror of mishap; Whose captain's slain, and all his army dead, Only excepted me, unhappy wretch. _Amu._ What news is this! and is Belinus slain? Is this the crown which Mahomet did say He should with triumph wear upon his head? Is this the honour which that cursèd god Did prophesy should happen to them all? O Dædalus, an wert thou now alive, To fasten wings upon high Amurack, Mahound should know, and that for certainty, That Turkish kings can brook no injury! _Fabi._ Tush, tush, my lord; I wonder what you mean, Thus to exclaim against high Mahomet: I'll lay my life that, ere this day be past, You shall perceive his tidings all be waste.