Pim. Besides, he is very ill bred for a King; he knows nothing of the World, cannot dress himself, nor sing, nor dance, or play on any Musick; ne’er saw a Woman, nor knows how to make use of one if he had her. There’s an old fusty Philosopher that instructs him; but ‘tis in nothing ever that shall make a fine Gentleman of him: He teaches him a deal of Awe and Reverence to the Gods; and tells him that his natural Reason’s Sin—But, Colonel, between you and I, he’ll no more of that Philosophy, but grows as sullen as if you had the breeding of him here i’th’ Camp.
Val. Thou tell’st me heavenly News; a King, a King again! Oh, for a mutinous Rabble, that would break the Prison-Walls, and set Orsames free, both from his Fetters and his Ignorance.
Pim. There is a Discourse at Court, that the Queen designs to bring him out, and try how he would behave himself: But I’m none of that Counsel, she’s like to make a fine Court on’t; we have enough in the Virago he Daughter, who, if it were not for her Beauty, one would swear were no Woman, she’s so given to Noise and Fighting.
Val. I never saw her since she was a Child, and then she naturally hated Scythia.
Pim. Nay, she’s in that mind still; and the superstitious Queen, who thinks that Crown belongs to Cleomena—
Val. Yes, that was the Promise of the Oracle too.
Pim. Breeds her more like a General than a Woman. Ah, how she loves fine Arms! a Bow, a Quiver! and though she be no natural Amazon, she’s capable of all their martial Fopperies—But hark, what Noise is that?
[Song within.
Val. ‘Tis what we do not use to hear—Stand by.