_Eros_. Yes indeed Sir, Far, far above. _Sep._ Why, why so coy? 'pray ye tell me We are alone. _Eros_. I am much asham'd we are so. _Sep._ You want a new Gown now, & a handsom Petticoat, A Skarf, and some odd toyes: I have gold here ready, Thou shal[t] have any thing. _Eros_. I want your absence: Keep on your way, I care not for your company. _Sep._ How? how? you are very short: do you know me _Eros_? And what I have been to ye? _Eros_. Yes I know ye: And I hope I shall forget ye: Whilst you were honest I lov'd ye too. _Sep._ Honest? come prethee kiss me. _Eros_. I kiss no knaves, no Murderers, no Beasts, No base betrayers of those men that fed 'em, I hate their looks; and though I may be wanton, I scorn to nourish it with bloody purchase, Purchase so foully got; I pray ye unhand me I had rather touch the plague, than one unworthy: Goe seek some Mistris that a horse may marry, And keep her company, she is too good for ye. [_Exit._ _Sep._ Marry this goes near; now I perceive I am hatefull, When this light stuff can distinguish, it grows dangerous, For mony, seldom they refuse a Leper: But sure I am more odious, more diseas'd too: _Enter three lame_ Souldiers. It sits cold here; what are these? three poor Souldiers? Both poor and lame: their misery may make 'em A little look upon me, and adore me, If these will keep me company, I am made yet. _1 Sol._ The pleasure _Cæsar_ sleeps in, makes us miserable, We are forgot, our maims and dangers laugh'd at; He Banquets, and we beg. _2 Sol._ He was not wont To let poor Souldiers that have spent their Fortunes, Their Bloods, and limbs, walk up and down like vagabonds. _Sep._ Save ye good Souldiers: good poor men, heaven help ye: You have born the brunt of war, and shew the story, _1 Sol._ Some new commander sure. _Sep._ You look (my good friends) By your thin faces, as you would be Suitors. _2 Sol._ To _Cæsar_, for our means, Sir. _Sep._ And 'tis fit Sir. _3 Sol._ We are poor men, and long forgot. _Sep._ I grieve for it: Good Souldiers should have good rewards, and favours, I'le give up your petitions, for I pity ye, And freely speak to _Cæsar_. _All_. O we honour ye. _1 Sol._ A good man sure ye are: the Gods preserve ye. _Sep._ And to relieve your wants the while, hold Soldiers, Nay 'tis no dream: 'tis good gold: take it freely, 'Twill keep ye in good heart. _2 Sol._ Now goodness quit ye. _Sep._ I'le be a friend to your afflictions, And eat, and drink with ye too, and we'l be merry: And every day I'le see ye. _1 Sol._ You are a Souldier, And one sent from the Gods, I think. _Sep._ I'le cloth ye, Ye are lame, and then provide good lodging for ye: And at my Table, where no want shall meet ye. _Enter_ Sceva. _All_. Was never such a man. _1 Sold._ Dear honour'd Sir, Let us but know your name, that we may worship ye.