Philaster; Or, Love Lies a Bleeding. Beaumont Francis

Nemesis it shall.

      Pha. He's mad beyond cure, mad.

      Di. Here's a fellow has some fire in's veins:

                      The outlandish Prince looks like a Tooth-drawer.

      Phi. Sir, Prince of Poppingjayes, I'le make it well appear

                      To you I am not mad.

      King. You displease us.

                      You are too bold.

      Phi. No Sir, I am too tame,

                      Too much a Turtle, a thing born without passion,

                      A faint shadow, that every drunken cloud sails over,

                      And makes nothing.

      King. I do not fancy this,

                      Call our Physicians: sure he is somewhat tainted.

      Thra. I do not think 'twill prove so.

      Di. H'as given him a general purge already, for all the right he has, and now he means to let him blood: Be constant Gentlemen; by these hilts I'le run his hazard, although I run my name out of the Kingdom.

      Cle. Peace, we are one soul.

      Pha. What you have seen in me, to stir offence,

                      I cannot find, unless it be this Lady

                      Offer'd into mine arms, with the succession,

                      Which I must keep though it hath pleas'd your fury

                      To mutiny within you; without disputing

                      Your Genealogies, or taking knowledge

                      Whose branch you are. The King will leave it me;

                      And I dare make it mine; you have your answer.

      Phi. If thou wert sole inheritor to him,

                      That made the world his; and couldst see no sun

                      Shine upon any but thine: were Pharamond

                      As truly valiant, as I feel him cold,

                      And ring'd among the choicest of his friends,

                      Such as would blush to talk such serious follies,

                      Or back such bellied commendations,

                      And from this present, spight of all these bugs,

                      You should hear further from me.

      King. Sir, you wrong the Prince:

                      I gave you not this freedom to brave our best friends,

                      You deserve our frown: go to, be better temper'd.

      Phi. It must be Sir, when I am nobler us'd.

      Gal. Ladyes,

                      This would have been a pattern of succession,

                      Had he ne're met this mischief. By my life,

                      He is the worthiest the true name of man

                      This day within my knowledge.

      Meg. I cannot tell what you may call your knowledge,

                      But the other is the man set in mine eye;

                      Oh! 'tis a Prince of wax.

      Gal. A Dog it is.

      King. Philaster, tell me,

                      The injuries you aim at in your riddles.

      Phi. If you had my eyes Sir, and sufferance,

                      My griefs upon you and my broken fortunes,

                      My want's great, and now nought but hopes and fears,

                      My wrongs would make ill riddles to be laught at.

                      Dare you be still my King and right me not?

      King. Give me your wrongs in private.

      [They whisper.

      Phi. Take them, and ease me of a load would bow strong Atlas.

      Di. He dares not stand the shock.

      Di. I cannot blame, him, there's danger in't. Every man in this age, has not a soul of Crystal for all men to read their actions through: mens hearts and faces are so far asunder, that they hold no intelligence. Do but view yon stranger well, and you shall see a Feaver through all his bravery, and feel him shake like a true Tenant; if he give not back his Crown again, upon the report of an Elder Gun, I have no augury.

      King. Go to:

                      Be more your self, as you respect our favour:

                      You'I stir us else: Sir, I must have you know

                      That y'are and shall be at our pleasure, what fashion we

                      Will put upon you: smooth your brow, or by the gods.

      Phi. I am dead Sir, y'are my fate: it was not I

                      Said I was not wrong'd: I carry all about me,

                      My weak stars led me to all my weak fortunes.

                      Who dares in all this presence speak (that is

                      But man of flesh and may be mortal) tell me

                      I do not most intirely love this Prince,

                      And honour his full vertues!

      King. Sure he's possest.

      Phi. Yes, with my Fathers spirit; It's here O King!

                      A dangerous spirit; now he tells me King,

                      I was a Kings heir, bids me be a King,

                      And whispers to me, these be all my Subjects.

                      'Tis