_Sce._ What Apparition? What Spirit have I rais'd? sure 'tis a Woman, She looks like one; now she begins to move too: A tempting Devil, o' my life; go off, _Cæsar_, Bless thy self, off: a Bawd grown in mine old days? Bawdry advanc'd upon my back? 'tis noble: Sir, if you be a Souldier come no nearer, She is sent to dispossess you of your honour, A Spunge, a Spunge to wipe away your Victories: And she would be cool'd, Sir, let the Souldiers trim her! They'll give her that she came for, and dispatch her; Be loyal to your self. Thou damned Woman, Dost thou come hither with thy flourishes, Thy flaunts, and faces to abuse mens manners? And am I made the instrument of Bawdry? I'll find a Lover for ye, one that shall hug ye. _Cæs._ Hold, on thy life, and be more temperate, Thou Beast. _Sce._ Thou Beast? _Cæs._ Could'st thou be so inhumane, So far from noble Men, to draw thy Weapon Upon a thing divine? _Sce._ Divine, or humane, They are never better pleas'd, nor more at hearts ease, Than when we draw with full intent upon 'em. _Cæs._ Move this way (Lady) 'Pray ye let me speak to ye. _Sce._ And Woman, you had best stand. _Cæs._ By the gods, But that I see her here, and hope her mortal, I should imagine some celestial sweetness, The treasure of soft love. _Sce._ Oh, this sounds mangily, Poorly, and scurvily in a Souldiers mouth: You had best be troubled with the Tooth-ach too, For Lovers ever are, and let your Nose drop That your celestial Beauty may befriend ye; At these years do you learn to be fantastical? After so many bloody fields, a Fool? She brings her Bed along too, she'll lose no time, Carries her Litter to lye soft, do you see that? Invites ye like a Gamester: note that impudence, For shame reflect upon your self, your honour, Look back into your noble parts, and blush: Let not the dear sweat of the hot _Pharsalia_, Mingle with base _Embraces_; am I he That have receiv'd so many wounds for _Cæsar_? Upon my Target groves of darts still growing? Have I endur'd all hungers, colds, distresses, And (as I had been bred that Iron that arm'd me) Stood out all weathers, now to curse my fortune? To ban the blood I lost for such a General? _Cæsar_. Offend no more: be gone. _Sce._ I will, and leave ye, Leave ye to womens wars, that will proclaim ye: You'l conquer _Rome_ now, and the Capitol With Fans, and Looking-glasses, farewel Cæsar. _Cleo._ Now I am private Sir, I dare speak to ye: But thus low first, for as a God I honour ye. _Sce._ Lower you'l be anon. _Cæsar_. Away. _Sce._ And privater, For that you covet all. [_Exit._ _Cæsar_. Tempt me no farther.