The False One: A Tragedy. Beaumont Francis

May Victory

      Attend on't, where it is.

      Achil. We every hour

      Expect to hear the issue.

      Sep. Save my good Lords;

      By Isis and Osiris, whom you worship;

      And the four hundred gods and goddesses

      Ador'd in Rome, I am your honours servant.

      Ach. Truth needs, Septimius, no oaths.

      Achil. You are cruel,

      If you deny him swearing, you take from him

      Three full parts of his language.

      Sep. Your Honour's bitter,

      Confound me, where I love I cannot say it,

      But I must swear't: yet such is my ill fortune,

      Nor vows, nor protestations win belief,

      I think, and (I can find no other reason)

      Because I am a Roman.

      Ach. No Septimius,

      To be a Roman were an honour to you,

      Did not your manners, and your life take from it,

      And cry aloud, that from Rome you bring nothing

      But Roman Vices, which you would plant here,

      But no seed of her vertues.

      Sep. With your reverence

      I am too old to learn.

      Ach. Any thing honest,

      That I believe, without an oath.

      Sep. I fear

      Your Lordship has slept ill to night, and that

      Invites this sad discourse: 'twill make you old

      Before your time:—O these vertuous Morals,

      And old religious principles, that fool us!

      I have brought you a new Song, will make you laugh,

      Though you were at your prayers.

      A[c]h. What is the subject?

      Be free Septimius.

      Sep. 'Tis a Catalogue

      Of all the Gamesters of the Court and City,

      Which Lord lyes with that Lady, and what Gallant

      Sports with that Merchants wife; and does relate

      Who sells her honour for a Diamond,

      Who, for a tissew robe: whose husband's jealous,

      And who so kind, that, to share with his wife,

      Will make the match himself:

      Harmless conceits,

      Though fools say they are dangerous: I sang it

      The last night at my Lord Photinus table.

      Ach. How? as a Fidler?

      Sep. No Sir, as a Guest,

      A welcom guest too: and it was approv'd of

      By a dozen of his friends, though they were touch'd in't:

      For look you, 'tis a kind of merriment,

      When we have laid by foolish modesty

      (As not a man of fashion will wear it)

      To talk what we have done; at least to hear it;

      If meerily set down, it fires the blood,

      And heightens Crest-faln appetite.

      Ach. New doctrine!

      Achil. Was't of your own composing?

      Sep. No, I bought it

      Of a skulking Scribler for two Ptolomies:

      But the hints were mine own; the wretch was fearfull:

      But I have damn'd my self, should it be question'd,

      That I will own it.

      Ach. And be punished for it:

      Take heed: for you may so long exercise

      Your scurrilous wit against authority,

      The Kingdoms Counsels; and make profane Jests,

      (Which to you (being an atheist) is nothing)

      Against Religion, that your great maintainers

      (Unless they would be thought Co-partners with you)

      Will leave you to the Law: and then, Septimius,

      Remember there are whips.

      Sep. For whore's I grant you,

      When they are out of date, till then are safe too,

      Or all the Gallants of the Court are Eunuchs,

      And for mine own defence I'le only add this,

      I'le be admitted for a wanton tale

      To some most private Cabinets, when your Priest-hood

      (Though laden with the mysteries of your goddess)

      Shall wait without unnoted: so I leave you

      To your pious thoughts. [Exit.

      Achil. 'Tis a strange impudence,

      This fellow does put on.

      Ach. The wonder great,

      He is accepted of.

      Achil. Vices, for him,

      Make as free way as vertues doe for others.

      'Tis the times fault: yet Great ones still have grace'd

      To make them sport, or rub them o're with flattery,

      Observers of all kinds.

Enter Photinus, and Septimius

      Ach. No more of him,

      He is not worth our thoughts: a Fugitive

      From Pompeys army: and now in a danger

      When he should use his service.

      Achil. See how he hangs

      On great Photinus Ear.

      Sep. Hell, and the furies,

      And all the plagues of darkness light upon me:

      You are my god on earth: and let me have

      Your favour here, fall what can fall hereafter.

      Pho. Thou art believ'd: dost thou want mony?

      Sep. No Sir.

      Pho. Or hast thou any suite? these ever follow

      Thy vehement protestations.

      Sep. You much wrong me;

      How can I want, when your beams shine upon me,

      Unless employment to express my zeal

      To do your greatness service? do but think

      A deed so dark, the Sun would blush to look on,

      For which Man-kind would curse me, and arm all

      The powers above, and those below against me:

      Command me, I will on.

      Pho. When I have use,

      I'le put you to the test.

      Sep. May