_Char._ What! Away for shame: you prophane rogues Must not be mingled with these holy reliques: This is a Sacrifice, our showre shall crowne 90 His sepulcher with Oliue, Myrrh and Bayes The plants of peace, of sorrow, victorie, Your teares would spring but weedes. _1 Cred._ Would they not so? Wee’ll keepe them to stop bottles then: _Rom._ No; keepe ’em For your owne sins, you Rogues, till you repent: 95 You’ll dye else and be damn’d. _2 Cred._ Damn’d, ha! ha, ha. _Rom._ Laugh yee? _3 Cred._ Yes faith, Sir, weel’d be very glad To please you eyther way. _1 Cred._ Y’are ne’re content, Crying nor laughing. _Rom._ Both with a birth shee rogues. _2 Cred._ Our wiues, Sir, taught vs. 100 _Rom._ Looke, looke, you slaues, your thanklesse cruelty And sauage manners, of vnkind _Dijon_, Exhaust these flouds, and not his fathers death. _1 Cred._ Slid, Sir, what would yee, ye’are so cholericke? _2 Cred._ Most soldiers are so yfaith, let him alone: 105 They haue little else to liue on, we haue not had A penny of him, haue we? _3 Cred._ ’Slight, wo’d you haue our hearts? _1 Cred._ We haue nothing but his body heere in durance For all our mony. _Priest._ On. _Char._ One moment more, But to bestow a few poore legacyes, 110 All I haue left in my dead fathers rights, And I haue done. Captaine, weare thou these spurs That yet ne’re made his horse runne from a foe. Lieutenant, thou, this Scarfe, and may it tye Thy valor, and thy honestie together: 115 For so it did in him. Ensigne, this Curace Your Generalls necklace once. You gentle Bearers, Deuide this purse of gold, this other, strow Among the poore: tis all I haue. _Romont_, (Weare thou this medall of himselfe) that like 120 A hearty Oake, grew’st close to this tall Pine, Euen in the wildest wildernese of war, Whereon foes broke their swords, and tyr’d themselues; Wounded and hack’d yee were, but neuer fell’d. For me my portion prouide in Heauen: 125 My roote is earth’d, and I a desolate branch Left scattered in the high way of the world, Trod vnder foot, that might haue bin a Columne, Mainly supporting our demolish’d house, This would I weare as my inheritance. 130 And what hope can arise to me from it, When I and it are both heere prisoners? Onely may this, if euer we be free, Keepe, or redeeme me from all infamie. _Song. Musicke._ _1 Cred._ No farther, looke to ’em at your owne perill. 135 _2 Cred._ No, as they please: their Master’s a good man. I would they were the _Burmudas_.