_Achil._ The Civil war In which the _Roman_ Empire is embarqu'd On a rough Sea of danger, does exact Their whole care to preserve themselves, and gives them No vacant time to think of what we do, Which hardly can concern them. _Ach._ What's your opinion Of the success? I have heard, in multitudes Of Souldiers, and all glorious pomp of war, _Pompey_ is much superiour. _Achil._ I could give you A Catalogue of all the several Nations From whence he drew his powers: but that were tedious. They have rich arms, are ten to one in number, Which makes them think the day already won; And _Pompey_ being master of the Sea, Such plenty of all delicates are brought in, As if the place on which they are entrench'd, Were not a Camp of Souldiers, but _Rome_, In which _Lucullus_ and _Apicius_ joyn'd, To make a publique Feast: they at _Dirachium_ Fought with success; but knew not to make use of _Fortunes_ fair offer: so much I have heard _Cæsar_ himself confess. _Ach._ Where are they now? _Achil._ In _Thessalie_, near the _Pharsalian_ plains Where _Cæsar_ with a handfull of his Men Hems in the greater number: his whole troops Exceed not twenty thousand, but old Souldiers Flesh'd in the spoils of _Germany_ and _France_, Inur'd to his Command, and only know To fight and overcome; And though that _Famine_ Raigns in his Camp, compelling them to tast Bread made of roots, forbid the use of man, (Which they with scorn threw into _Pompeys_ Camp As in derision of his Delicates) Or corn not yet half ripe, and that a Banquet: They still besiege him, being ambitious only To come to blows, and let their swords determine Who hath the better Cause. _Enter_ Septi[m]ius. _Ach._ May Victory Attend on't, where it is. _Achil._ We every hour Expect to hear the issue. _Sep._ Save my good Lords; By _Isis_ and _Osiris_, whom you worship; And the four hundred gods and goddesses Ador'd in _Rome_, I am your honours servant. _Ach._ Truth needs, _Septimius_, no oaths. _Achil._ You are cruel, If you deny him swearing, you take from him Three full parts of his language. _Sep._ Your Honour's bitter, Confound me, where I love I cannot say it, But I must swear't: yet such is my ill fortune, Nor vows, nor protestations win belief, I think, and (I can find no other reason) Because I am a _Roman_. _Ach._ No _Septimius_, To be a _Roman_ were an honour to you, Did not your manners, and your life take from it, And cry aloud, that from _Rome_ you bring nothing But _Roman_ Vices, which you would plant here, But no seed of her vertues. _Sep._ With your reverence I am too old to learn. _Ach._ Any thing honest, That I believe, without an oath.