The False One Part 12

_1 Sol._ I cry.

_2 Sol._ And so do I.

_3 Sol._ An excellent villain.

_1 Sol._ A more sweet pious knave I never heard yet.

_2 Sol._ He was happie he was Rascal, to come to this.

_Enter_ Ach.o.r.eus.

Who's this? a Priest?

_Sep._ O stay, most holy Sir!

And by the G.o.ds of _Egypt_, I conjure ye, (_Isis_, and great _Osiris_) pity me, Pity a loaden man, and tell me truly With what most humble Sacrifice I may Wash off my sin, and appease the powers that hate me?

Take from my heart those thousand thousand furies, That restless gnaw upon my life, and save me.

_Orestes_ b.l.o.o.d.y hands fell on his Mother, Yet, at the holy altar he was pardon'd.

_Ach._ _Orestes_ out of madness did his murther, And therefore he found grace: thou (worst of all men) Out of cold blood, and hope of gain, base lucre, Slew'st thine own Feeder: come not near the altar, Nor with thy reeking hands pollute the Sacrifice, Thou art markt for shame eternal. [_Exit._

_Sep._ Look all on me, And let me be a story left to time Of blood and Infamy, how base and ugly Ingrat.i.tude appears, with all her profits, How monstrous my hop'd grace, at Court! good souldiers Let neither flattery, nor the witching sound Of high and soft preferment, touch your goodness: To be valiant, old, and honest, O what blessedness--

_1 Sold._ Dost thou want any thing?

_Sep._ Nothing but your prayers.

_2 Sol._ Be thus, and let the blind Priest do his worst, We have G.o.ds as well as they, and they will hear us.

_3 Sol._ Come, cry no more: thou hast wep't out twenty _Pompeys_.

_Enter_ Photinus, Achillas.

_Pho._ So penitent?

_Achil._ It seems so.

_Pho._ Yet for all this We must employ him.

_1 Sol._ These are the arm'd Souldier leaders: Away: and let's toth' Fort, we shall be snapt else. [_Exeunt._

_Pho._ How now? why thus? what cause of this dejection?

_Achil._ Why dost thou weep?

_Sep._ Pray leave me, you have ruin'd me, You have made me a famous Villain.

_Pho._ Does that touch thee?

_Achil._ He will be hard to win: he feels his lewdness.

_Pho._ He must be won, or we shall want our right hand.

This fellow dares, and knows, and must be heartned.

Art thou so poor to blench at what thou hast done?

Is Conscience a comrade for an old Soldier?

_Achil._ It is not that: it may be some disgrace That he takes heavily; and would be cherish'd, _Septimius_ ever scorn'd to shew such weakness.

_Sep._ Let me alone; I am not for your purpose, I am now a new man.

_Pho._ We have new affairs for thee, Those that would raise thy head.

_Sep._ I would 'twere off, And in your bellies for the love you bear me.

I'le be no more Knave: I have stings enough Already in my breast.

_Pho._ Thou shalt be n.o.ble: And who dares think then that thou art not honest?

_Achil._ Thou shalt command in Chief, all our strong Forces And if thou serv'st an use, must not all justifie it?

_S[e]p._ I am Rogue enough.

_Pho._ Thou wilt be more, and baser: A poor Rogue is all Rogues: open to all shames: Nothing to shadow him: dost thou think crying Can keep thee from the censure of the Mult.i.tude?

Or to be kneeling at the altar save thee?

'Tis poor and servile: Wert thou thine own Sacrifice 'Twould seem so low, people would spit the fire out.

_Achil._ Keep thy self glorious still, though ne're so stain'd, And that will lessen it, if not work it out.

To goe complaining thus, and thus repenting Like a poor Girl that had betrai'd her maide[n]-head--

_Sep._ I'le stop mine ears.

_Achil._ Will shew so in a Souldier, So simply, and so ridiculously, so tamely--

_Pho._ If people would believe thee, 'twere some honesty, And for thy penitence would not laugh at thee (As sure they will) and beat thee for thy poverty: If they would allow thy foolery, there were some hope.

_Sep._ My foolery?

_Pho._ Nay, more than that, thy misery, Thy monstrous misery.

_A[c]hil._ He begins to hearken: Thy misery so great, men will not bury thee.

_Sep._ That this were true!

_Pho._ Why does this conquering _Caesar_ Labour through the worlds deep Seas of toyls and troubles, Dangers, and desperate hopes? to repent afterwards?

Why does he slaughter thousands in a Battel, And whip his Country with the sword? to cry for't?

Thou killd'st great _Pompey_; he'l kill all his kindred, And justifie it: nay raise up _Trophies_ to it.

When thou hear'st him repent, (he's held most holy too) And cry for doing daily b.l.o.o.d.y murthers, Take thou example, and go ask forgiveness, Call up the thing thou nam'st thy conscience, And let it work: then 'twill seem well _Septimius_.

_Sep._ He does all this.