_Achil._ What eye Will look upon King _Ptolomy_? if they do look, It must be in scorn: For a poor King is a monster; What ear remember ye? 'twill be then a courtesie (A noble one) to take your life too from ye: But if reserv'd, you stand to fill a victory, As who knows Conquerours minds? though outwardly They bear fair streams. O Sir, does this not shake ye? If to be honyed on to these afflictions-- _Ptol._ I never will: I was a Fool. _Pho._ For then Sir Your Countreys cause falls with ye too, and fetter'd: All _Ægypt_ shall be plough'd up with dishonour. _Ptol._ No more: I am sensible: and now my spirit Burns hot within me. _Achil._ Keep it warm and fiery. _Pho._ And last be counsel'd. _Ptol._ I will, though I perish. _Pho._ Goe in; we'l tell you all: and then we'l execute. [_Exeunt._ SCENA II. _Enter_ Cleopatra, Arsino, Eros. _Ars._ You are so impatient. _Cleo._ Have I not cause? Women of common Beauties, and low Births, When they are slighted, are allow'd their angers, Why should not I (a Princess) make him know The baseness of his usage? _Ars._ Yes: 'tis fit: But then again you know what man. _Cleo._ He is no man: The shadow of a Greatness hangs upon him, And not the vertue: he is no Conquerour, H'as suffer'd under the base dross of Nature: Poorly delivered up his power to wealth, (The god of bed-rid men) taught his eyes treason Against the truth of love: he has rais'd rebellion: Defi'd his holy flames. _Eros._ He will fall back again, And satisfie your Grace. _Cleo._ Had I been old, Or blasted in my bud, he might have shew'd Some shadow of dislike: But, to prefer The lustre of a little art, _Arsino_, And the poor glow-worm light of some faint Jewels, Before the life of Love, and soul of Beauty, Oh how it vexes me! he is no Souldier, (All honourable Souldiers are Loves servants) He is a Merchant; a meer wandring Merchant, Servile to gain: he trades for poor Commodities, And makes his Conquests, thefts; some fortunate Captains That quarter with him, and are truly valiant, Have flung the name of happy _Cæsar_ on him, Himself ne're won it: he is so base and covetous, He'l sell his sword for gold. _Ars._ This is too bitter.