_Sce._ And learns to fiddle most melodiously, And sings, 'twould make your ears prick up, to hear him Gent. Shortly she'l make him spin: and 'tis thought He will prove an admirable maker of Bonelace, And what a rare gift will that be in a General! _Ant._ I would he could abstain. _Sce._ She is a witch sure, And works upon him with some damn'd inchantment. _Dol._ How cunning she will carry her behaviours, And set her countenance in a thousand postures, To catch her ends! _Sce._ She will be sick, well, sullen, Merry, coy, over-joy'd, and seem to dye All in one half hour, to make an asse of him: I make no doubt she will be drunk too damnably, And in her drink will fight, then she fits him. _Ant._ That thou shouldst bring her in! _Sce._ 'Twas my blind fortune, My Souldiers told me, by the weight 'twas wicked: Would I had carried _Milo's_ Bull a furlong, When I brought in this Cow-Calf: he has advanced me From an old Souldier, to a bawd of memory: O, that the Sons of _Pompey_ were behind him, The honour'd _Cato_, and fierce _Juba_ with 'em, That they might whip him from his whore, and rowze him: That their fierce Trumpets, from his wanton trances, Might shake him like an Earth-quake. _Enter_ Septimius. _Ant._ What's this fellow? _Dol._ Why, a brave fellow, if we judge men by their clothes. _Ant._ By my faith he is brave indeed: he's no commander? _Sce._ Yes, he has a _Roman_ face, he has been at fair wars And plenteous too, and rich, his Trappings shew it. _Sep._ And they will not know me now, they'l never know me. Who dare blush now at my acquaintance? ha? Am I not totally a span-new Gallant, Fit for the choycest eyes? have I not gold? The friendship of the world? if they shun me now (Though I were the arrantest rogue, as I am well forward) Mine own curse, and the Devils too light on me. _Ant._ Is't not _Septimius_? _Sce._ Yes. _Dol._ He that kill'd _Pompey_? _Sce._ The same Dog, Scab; that guilded botch, that rascal. _Dol._ How glorious villany appears in _Egypt_! _Sep._ Gallants, and Souldiers, sure they do admire me. _Sce._ Stand further off, thou stinkest. _Sep._ A likely matter: These Cloaths smell mustily, do they not, Gallants? They stink, they stink, alas poor things, contemptible. By all the Gods in _Egypt_, the perfumes That went to trimming these cloathes, cost me-- _Sce._ Thou stinkest still. _Sep._ The powdering of this head too-- _Sce._ If thou hast it, I'le tell thee all the Gumms in sweet _Arabia_ Are not sufficient, were they burnt about thee, To purge the scent of a rank Rascal from thee. _Ant._ I smell him now: fie, how the Knave perfumes him, How strong he scents of Traitor!