Beaumont & Fletcher's Works (3 of 10): The Loyal Subject. Beaumont Francis

with his thousand doors —

      Duk. I have consider'd;

      No more: and that I will have, shall be.

      Olym. For the best,

      I hope all still.

      Duk. What handsom wench is that there?

      Olym. My Servant, Sir.

      Duk. Prethee observe her Burris,

      Is she not wondrous handsom? speak thy freedom.

      Bur. She appears no less to me Sir.

      Duk. Of whence is she?

      Ol. Her Father I am told is a good Gentleman,

      But far off dwelling: her desire to serve me

      Brought her to th' Court, and here her friends have left her.

      Du. She may find better friends:

      Ye are welcom fair one,

      I have not seen a sweeter: By your Ladies leave:

      Nay stand up sweet, we'll have no superstition:

      You have got a Servant; you may use him kindly,

      And he may honour ye: [Ex. Duke and Burris.

      Good morrow Sister.

      Ol. Good morrow to your Grace. How the wench blushes!

      How like an A[n]gel now she looks!

      1 Wom. At first jump

      Jump into the Dukes arms? we must look to you,

      Indeed we must, the next jump we are journeymen.

      Pet. I see the ruine of our hopes already,

      Would she were at home again, milking her Fathers Cows.

      1 Wom. I fear she'l milk all the great Courtiers first.

      Olym. This has not made ye proud?

      Al. No certain, Madam.

      Olym. It was the Duke that kist ye.

      Al. 'Twas your Brother,

      And therefore nothing can be meant but honour.

      Ol. But say he love ye?

      Al. That he may with safety:

      A Princes love extends to all his subjects.

      Ol. But say in more particular?

      Al. Pray fear not:

      For vertues sake deliver me from doubts, Lady:

      'Tis not the name of King, nor all his promises,

      His glories, and his greatness stuck about me,

      Can make me prove a Traitor to your service:

      You are my Mistris, and my noble Master,

      Your vertues my ambition, and your favour

      The end of all my love, and all my fortune:

      And when I fail in that faith —

      Ol. I believe thee,

      Come wipe your eyes; I do: take you example —

      Pets. I would her eyes were out.

      1 Wom. If the wind stand in this door,

      We shall have but cold custome: some trick or other,

      And speedily.

      Pet. Let me alone to think on't.

      Ol. Come, be you near me still.

      Al. With all my duty. [Exeunt.

SCENA III Enter Archas, Theodor, Putskie, Ancient, and Souldiers, carrying his armour piece-meale, his Colours wound up, and his Drums in Cases

      Theod. This is the heaviest march we e're trod Captain.

      Puts. This was not wont to be: these honour'd pieces

      The fierie god of war himself would smile at,

      Buckl'd upon that body, were not wont thus,

      Like Reliques to be offer'd to long rust,

      And heavy-ey'd oblivion brood upon 'em.

      Arch. There set 'em down: and glorious war farewel;

      Thou child of honour and ambitious thoughts,

      Begot in bloud, and nurs'd with Kingdomes ruines;

      Thou golden danger, courted by thy followers

      Through fires and famins, for one title from thee —

      Prodigal man-kind spending all his fortunes;

      A long farewel I give thee: Noble Arms,

      You ribs for mighty minds, you Iron houses,

      Made to defie the thunder-claps of Fortune,

      Rust and consuming time must now dwell with ye:

      And thou good Sword that knewst the way to conquest,

      Upon whose fatal edge despair and death dwelt,

      That when I shook thee thus, fore-shew'd destruction,

      Sleep now from bloud, and grace my Monument:

      Farewel my Eagle; when thou flew'st, whole Armies

      Have stoopt below thee: At Passage I have seen thee,

      Ruffle the Tartars, as they fled thy furie;

      And bang 'em up together, as a Tassel,

      Upon the streach, a flock of fearfull Pigeons.

      I yet remember when the Volga curl'd,

      The aged Volga, when he heav'd his head up,

      And rais'd his waters high, to see the ruins;

      The ruines our Swords made, the bloudy ruins,

      Then flew this Bird of honour bravely, Gentlemen;

      But these must be forgotten: so must these too,

      And all that tend to Arms, by me for ever.

      Take 'em you holy men; my Vow take with 'em,

      Never to wear 'em more: Trophies I give 'em,

      And sacred Rites of war to adorn the Temple:

      There let 'em hang, to tell the world their master

      Is now Devotions Souldier, fit for prayer.

      Why do ye hang your heads? why look you sad friends?

      I am not dying yet.

      Theod. Ye are indeed to us Sir.

      Puts. Dead to our fortunes, General.

      Arch. You'l find a better,

      A greater, and a stronger man to lead ye,

      And to a stronger fortune: I am old, friends,

      Time, and the wars together make me stoop, Gentle[men],

      Stoop to my grave: my mind unfurnish'd too,

      Emptie and weak as I am: my poor body,

      Able for nothing now but contemplation,

      And that will be a task too to a Souldier:

      Yet had they but encourag'd me, or thought well

      Of what I have done, I think I should have ventur'd

      For one knock more, I should have made a shift yet

      To