_Ach._ Peace _Septimius_, Thy words sound more ungratefull than thy actions, Though sometimes safety seek an instrument Of thy unworthy nature, thou (loud boaster) Think not she is bound to love him too, that's barbarous. Why did not I, if this be meritorious, And binds the King unto me, and his bounties, Strike this rude stroke? I'le tell thee (thou poor _Roman_) It was a sacred head, I durst not heave at, Not heave a thought. _Sep._ It was. _Ach._ I'le tell thee truely, And if thou ever yet heard'st tell of honour, I'le make thee blush: It was thy General's; That mans that fed thee once, that mans that bred thee, The air thou breath'dst was his; the fire that warm'd thee, From his care kindled ever, nay, I'le show thee, (Because I'le make thee sensible of the business, And why a noble man durst not touch at it) There was no piece of Earth, thou putst thy foot on But was his conquest; and he gave thee motion. He triumph'd three times, who durst touch his person? The very walls of _Rome_ bow'd to his presence, Dear to the Gods he was, to them that fear'd him A fair and noble Enemy. Didst thou hate him? And for thy love to _Cæsar_, sought his ruine? Arm'd in the red _Pharsalian_ fields, _Septimius_, Where killing was in grace, and wounds were glorious, Where Kings were fair competitours for honour, Thou shouldst have come up to him, there have fought him, There, Sword to Sword. _Sep._ I kill'd him on commandment, If Kings commands be fair, when you all fainted, When none of you durst look-- _Ach._ On deeds so barbarous, What hast thou got? _Sep._ The Kings love, and his bounty, The honour of the service, which though you rail at, Or a thousand envious souls fling their foams on me, Will dignifie the cause, and make me glorious: And I shall live. _Ach._ A miserable villain, What reputation, and reward belongs to it Thus (with the head) I seize on, and make mine; And be not impudent to ask me why, Sirrah, Nor bold to stay, read in mine eyes the reason: The shame and obloquy I leave thine own, Inherit those rewards, they are fitter for thee, Your oyl's spent, and your snuff stinks: go out basely. [_Exit._ _Sep._ The King will yet consider. _Enter_ Ptolomy, Achoreus, Photinus. _Achil._ Here he comes Sir. _Ach._ Yet if it be undone: hear me great Sir, If this inhumane stroak be yet unstrucken, If that adored head be not yet sever'd From the most noble Body, weigh the miseries, The desolations that this great Eclipse works, You are young, be provident: fix not your Empire Upon the Tomb of him will shake all _Egypt_, Whose warlike groans will raise ten thousand Spirits, (Great as himself) in every hand a thunder; Destructions darting from their looks, and sorrows That easy womens eyes shall never empty. _Pho._ You have done well; and 'tis done, see _Achillas_, And in his hand the head.