_Fool._ O let me ring the fore Bell. [_Chi._] And here are thumpers, Chiqueens, golden rogues, Wit, wit, ye Rascals. _Fool._ I have a Stye here, _Chilax_. _Chi._ I have no Gold to cure it, not a penny, Not one cross, Cavalier; we are dull Souldiers, Gross heavy-headed fellows; fight for Victuals? _Fool._ Why, ye are the Spirits of the time. _Chi._ By no means. _Fool._ The valiant firie. _Chi._ Fie, fie, no. _Fool._ Be-lee me, Sir. _Chi._ I wou'd I cou'd, Sir. _Fool._ I will satisfie ye. _Chi._ But I will not content you; alas poor Boy, Thou shew'st an honest Nature, weepst for thy Master, There's a red Rogue to buy thee Handkerchiefs. _Fool._ He was an honest Gentleman, I have lost too. _Chi._ You have indeed your labour, Fool; but _Stremon_, Dost thou want money too? no Vertue living? No firking out at fingers ends? _Strem._ It seems so. _Chi._ Will ye all serve me? _Strem._ Yes, when ye are Lord General, For less I will not go. _Chi._ There's Gold for thee then, Thou hast a Souldiers mind. Fool-- _Fool._ Here, your first man. _Chi._ I will give thee for thy Wit, for 'tis a fine wit, A dainty diving Wit, hold up, just nothing, Go graze i' th' Commons, yet I am merciful-- There's six-pence: buy a Saucer, steal an old Gown, And beg i' th' Temple for a Prophet, come away Boys, Let's see how things are carried, Fool, up Sirrah, You may chance get a dinner: Boy, your preferment I'll undertake, for your brave Masters sake, You shall not perish. _Fool._ _Chilax._ _Chi._ Please me well, Fool. And you shall light my pipes: away to the Temple. But stay, the King's here, sport upon sport, Boys. _Enter King, Lords_, Siphax _kneeling_, Cloe _with a Vail_. _King._ What would you have, Captain? Speak suddenly, for I am wondrous busie. _Si._ A pardon, Royal Sir. _King._ For what? _Si._ For that Which was Heaven's Will, should not be mine alone, Sir; My marrying with this Lady. _King._ It needs no pardon, For Marriage is no Sin. _Si._ Not in it self, Sir; But in presuming too much: yet Heaven knows, So does the Oracle that cast it on me, And----the Princess, royal Sir. _King._ What Princess? _Si._ O be not angry my dread King, your Sister. _King._ My Sister; she's i' th' Temple, Man. _Si._ She is here, Sir. _Lord._ The Captain's mad, she's kneeling at the Altar. _King._ I know she is; with all my heart good Captain, I do forgive ye both: be unvail'd, Lady. [_Puts off her Vail._ Will ye have more forgiveness? the man's frantick, Come let's go bring her out: God give ye joy, Sir. _Si._ How, _Cloe_? my old _Cloe_? [_Ex. King, Lords._ _Clo._ Even the same, Sir. _Chi._ Gods give your manhood much content. _Strem._ The Princess Looks something musty since her coming over. _Fool._ 'Twere good you'd brush her over.